The Universe is Rarely so Lazy
by Sophia Banks
Summary: Isabelle Long was an exceptional Soul and Mycroft, an exceptional Mind. Together they made up the incomparable Heart. Of course this was true in every world and every life they lived. ..Even if in some worlds things don't go "quite" as planned. (MycroftXOC from my other fic "A Long way to Holmes". A collection of drabbles and oneshots- Mostly AU's. Open to suggestions!)
1. Nightmare

**Nightmare-**

Lillian Holmes woke up with a cry of dismay, bolting upright. Her golden hair fell around her shoulders and stuck to her sweaty face as she clutched the edge of her blanket desperately.  
Lily understood even at such a young age that nightmares weren't real, that there was no monster under the bed (though she often made Alistair check because she could) and there was no creature looming in the closet. She understood that the horrors her mind conjured up would never come to fruition. That didn't stop the intense fear that enveloped her as soon as she closed her eyes.  
Being a Holmes, with a life that once or twice (thanks to her Uncle) involved looking at dead bodies, Lily was able to come up with some doozies!

 _Hands had circled her wrists and ankles pulling her to the floor, cold mindless laughter had filled her head, and a beast with blood in his teeth had stared down at her with pale eyes._

Shuddering and breathing heavily Lily brought her feet towards her for fear of some unseen creature biting off her toes or taking her by the uncovered part of her anatomy and dragging her beneath the bed. Unable to see anything in the darkness of her room, she allowed panic to overtake her.  
Lily briefly entertained the idea of climbing out of bed to turn on the lights, but the floor was cold and so many unseen things could take her from behind if she didn't have her pillow pressed against her back.  
For three agonizing minutes she sat in delirious panic, weariness overtaking her enough to at least slow her breathing- but she didn't trust sleep.  
Suddenly the click of footsteps out in the hall sent her heart into her throat. Much to her relief the six year old realized that this was her father heading towards his bedroom from downstairs. Without thought she muttered a pained, "Daddy?"

The footsteps stopped, and for a moment she thought it was because he'd found his room and the plush carpet muffled them. But soon she could tell he was coming towards her door. The soft creak was followed by a sliver of light, and Mycroft poked his head through it, "Lillian, did you-" he halted his sentence to take in his daughter's tear streaked face. With ease he flipped the light switch making Lily blink in protest.  
Mycroft made his way further into the room, closing the door behind him with an audible click. Lily wrapped her arms around her knees, biting the inside of her cheek. She didn't really want to explain what had happened. She felt weak and pathetic, the poor little girl that couldn't calm herself down and just go back to sleep! Turning her blue eyes on her protected feet, Lily said nothing, waiting for her father to leave with no reason to stay.

But he didn't.

Smoothly he made his way to her bed, sitting primly at the edge just beside her. He didn't gather her into his arms, nor offer any reassurance that it was all just a nightmare (because that would have been an idiotic statement to both of them, of course it was a nightmare!). He just...sat. Whether this was due to an understanding of her situation or because he knew absolutely _nothing_ about how to comfort a child, she didn't know. But that hardly mattered.  
Lillian allowed his presence to be her protection. He sat like a statue, guarding her from the nothingness. Why did he need to say anything when the fact that he was there was enough?  
Slowly Lillian eased back into a supine position, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. Rolling onto her side she managed to mumble, "'night Daddy," before everything seem to relax inside of her and she succumbed to sleep once more.  
Mycroft smiled as he listened to her slowed breathing, waiting a short time before he stood up to turn off the lights, casting one last look at his daughter. He left the doorway open enough to let some light into the room, and to be safe he would leave his door open as well. If she called for him, he would come.

* * *

 **Ok, no Isabelle in this one. I wrote this a while ago but didn't know where to put it. X)**

 **More soon!**

 **(Please review... I have cookie brownies!)**


	2. Escape

**Escape (Set in regular "ALWTH")-**

Isabelle and Mycroft came to a stop after what seemed like hours of uninterrupted running. Isabelle clutched at her aching ribs, desperately searching their dark surroundings.  
"D-do you think we lost them?" she gasped. Mycroft- equally out of breath- shook his head, "If they had we would be dead."  
Isabelle glared at him and Mycroft balked, "You think this is my fault, don't you."  
The young woman scoffed, "Well, I'm certainly not blaming _me_!"  
Her husband sniffed, searching the inky blackness for any sign of where they were. He clearly came up with a blank because he made no move to further their escape.  
"You know," Mycroft spoke after a pause, "We did survive and are not all that worse for wear…"  
Isabelle stared at him incredulously, "You were shot in the arm, I have a sprained wrist- I call that worse for wear."  
Her husband looked at her sourly, "Merely trying to lift the mood."  
Good lord, what a useless endeavor that was! Isabelle threw up her hands regretting it immediately as it jogged her injured wrist, "Myc, you're wearing a bathrobe…that's it!" she could see his hair still wet from the shower, the blue fluffy article of clothing hanging off his lean frame and ending just at his knees. Mycroft shifted on bare feet, "I was hoping to forget that."  
After a moment of uncomfortable silence Mycroft huffed, "It still could have been worse, I could have died for instance."

" _Myc,_ " Isabelle whined pathetically, "It's our Honeymoon!"

* * *

 **I almost deleted this thing, and then I told myself to suck it up and just write another chapter! It worked, I feel better about my crummy writing Lol.  
This was actually going to be a full length story. I think it's better as a short.**

 **Review, uh… I have left over noodles? Heh.**


	3. Christmas celebrations

**Christmas celebrations (Set some time after "The Abominable Isabelle Long")-**

Mycroft Holmes liked being alone. He was very content with his alone-ness. He spent the majority of his life as thus. So… so why was he so uncomfortable?  
The large man sat perfectly still in front of the fireplace, the fire inside built up by either Wooster or Leens (he really couldn't tell one from the other at this point he spent so little time at home) at any rate it kept the chill out. Perhaps it was due to the Christmas Holiday that he felt oddly (dare he even think it) lonely. Many people had instructed him to go home and have a good time with his "Family", meaning his brother which was unlikely to happen. Sherlock _used_ to come by on Christmas day, talking endlessly to Mycroft without expecting any sort of response. It was very kind of him really, even if he didn't realize it. Now there was the good Doctor to occupy Sherlock's time and not even a telegram was sent.

The crackle of a burning log made his fingers twitch with unrest. Nervous energy that he had no business having- Mycroft was a sedate creature in every sense of the word. He thought if he were to listen hard might hear the steady clop of horse hooves (ghastly beasts) just outside and the footsteps walking past his lodgings unaware of the brilliance lurking inside.  
Calmly he turned his head, a tray set out with a glass of untouched scotch resting atop before him. In the corner just behind it stood a green fir tree, he really had no idea who set that up, likely some poor deluded member of his staff dripping with the Christmas Spirit ore one making some cruel joke, because nothing would ever be put beneath that tree.  
Mycroft closed his eyes, blocking it all out. He despised holidays, he despised people, and he did _not_ feel lonely! (And were he standing he might have stamped his foot like a petulant child)

Mycroft's bitter thoughts were interrupted by a shy knock on his front door. His eyes snapped open and he shifted in his chair. Who on earth? It couldn't be Sherlock, he would not have knocked. Perhaps some crisis had occurred and a boy had come to deliver the news? Mycroft let that thought settle for a moment and finally considered it something he rather wanted, to get him out of his gloomy mood. Moments passed before the knock came again…he was going to have to get up wasn't he. _Damn.  
_ Mycroft slid his hands over to the arm of his chair, prepared to sit up in one _semi_ -swift movement, when he heard the unmistakable creak of the door opening and the even more unmistakable voice of none other than Isabelle Long, "Mr. Holmes?"  
The elder Holmes brother settled again, "In here Miss Long," he called out to her, listening to her soft exclamation of understanding and then the click of her tall shoes on his wood floors. Isabelle blessedly circled the chair so that he didn't have to turn to face her. The young lady was bedecked in a blood red dress with emerald green design around the skirt and sleeves. It didn't cover her shoulders; rather she had a black shaded shawl of sorts to do that. Her hair was poorly put up in a chignon, stray hairs coming out everywhere and even a loose wavy lock just behind her ear which she tried to hide by pinning it- but had failed horribly.

Mycroft took in the way she nervously fingered the folds of her dress with one hand, the other holding a brown papered parcel.  
"Please Miss Long, sit down," he gestured to a chair not far from him. Isabelle nodded her head politely, carelessly sliding the chair closer to the fireplace before sitting delicately. Her thin lips, colored, were pursed as she seemed to consider what she meant to say. Mycroft swallowed, letting her do just that, if only for the sake of hiding his own awkwardness.  
"I had thought there might be some… celebration," Isabelle said slowly, "So I must apologize for coming anyway."  
Isabelle was odd. Mycroft hummed, taking the glass of scotch in his fingers and sipping at it before setting it aside yet again. He could see the flash of disapproval that crossed the young woman's thin face but she made no comment, "But of course there is no one here so…"  
Mycroft stiffened under her hopeful gaze. She wanted to stay, but he didn't need her to stay because he wasn't lonely. Obviously. With effort he kept his tone even, "Yes, no one is here. I like it as such Miss Long."  
Isabelle's hazel eyes widened and her face reddened, "Oh, I apologize," she hastened to say, standing up and curtsying, "I should leave you to your well-earned solitude."  
Of course he didn't really _want_ her to leave which spurred him to put out a hand, "Wait!"  
She stopped.  
Mycroft stared blankly for a moment before he let his hand drop and he said, "I believe you brought something for me?" _Oh, lovely. Tell her to leave and then demand a present? Perfect plan Mycroft!_ He thought to himself bitterly. Isabelle hesitated before him, fingering the parcel. That was it, he messed it up. The man was about to apologize for his rudeness when Isabelle all but surprised him.

"How did you know it was for you?"

Mycroft smiled indulgently and nodded towards the chair. She gave him an infuriatingly understanding look before she made her way back into her seat, hands folded finely over the package.  
"Firstly it is wrapped plainly in brown paper," the gentleman said smoothly. Isabelle's brow furrowed pleasantly, "I could be ready to mail it," she countered.  
"No address."  
The young lady huffed, "Very well, then how did you know it was a gift, and for you specifically Mr. Holmes not some person I am to meet later?"  
Mycroft brushed fingertips across his opposite sleeve to remove nonexistent dust, "Firstly, it was wrapped with great care but the edges remain sloppy and cut unevenly by a right handed person, not done by professional in some shop and hardly by a family member of yours. Thus, you wrapped it as an intended present. Secondly, it is in plain brown paper, not like the accustomed gift people place beneath the tree. You intend to give it to someone who is either a veritable Scrooge during the Christmas Holiday or someone who cares little for the traditions of it. You visited me first, who else is there?" he cocked his head to the right just the slightest to sell the effect.

Isabelle's smile grew into a crooked grin, "Oh very well Mr. Holmes, yes it is for you!" she stood up to plop the package unceremoniously onto his lap. Mycroft collected it into his large hands, methodically pulling off the nearly patchwork pieces of wrapping. He carefully folded it as best he could (much to Isabelle's obvious annoyance) then set out to open the box within. Mycroft pulled the item free of the inside, staring at it with wondering eyes. Isabelle excitedly clapped her hands together, "They are Opera Glasses! S-so you might properly 'observe the world'."  
Mycroft couldn't help it, he _beamed_ at her! "How thoughtful Miss Long," he said. Of course, he doubted he would use them very often. But the idea of the gift gave his heart (or rather the empty cavity within his chest) a rather wild leap. He took in the golden colored metal and the dark red wood and wondered how much she spent on it. "I'm afraid I didn't buy anything for you," he mumbled, "You should not have spent your precious few upon a gift for me."  
Isabelle waved him off, "I don't mind Mr. Holmes. I rather enjoyed the challenge of finding something you might like. And Gloria most recently found herself employ so I believe some of the pressure has been taken off my shoulders regarding our…funds," her cheery smile faltered, a single twitch of her lip as though she was fighting a frown.

Mycroft had met Isabelle less than a year ago when she'd wantonly barged her way into the Diogenes in hopes of asking him for a job. He remembered the startled expression that crossed her attractive features when she first saw him- he was used to that. What struck him though was that it lasted but a second (no more) and then she smiled at him so openly and kindly, _"Mr. Holmes, I need you to find me a job."  
_ It seemed they knew each other as children and he had promised her that if she ever needed his help he would gladly give it (An odd lapse in his memory). When her father died she and her two sisters were left in terrible debt as well as left with a large manor house that they could not possibly maintain. Isabelle proudly went looking for work; her siblings on the other hand were spoiled and unwilling to do any such thing. Mycroft thought them idiots.  
Mycroft watched Isabelle fight her way out of that debt; it was one of the things he admired about her much as he did Mary Watson - unwilling to let society bog them down.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked of her, setting aside her gift so he might appear more attentive to her trouble. Isabelle looked down at her hands, "Nothing truly Mr. Holmes. Pay no mind to my troubles…"  
Mycroft scoffed audibly at this, "Miss Long your troubles became mine the moment you stepped into the Stranger Room," that garnered a soft smile from her (thank goodness), "Whatever is troubling you I vow not to find it ridiculous. Or at the very least I shall bite my tongue."  
She giggled. Isabelle had a laugh that was so incredibly unladylike it could make even the loosest of women cry it scandalous. Mycroft liked it because it spoke of her true nature.  
The young woman once again let her hands rest atop her lap, tracing a pattern across her knee with one thin finger.  
"I was thinking of my returning home. Maria and Gloria will be at a party and I…I will be alone for the first time since father's passing," her eyes became watery.

 _Of course… she was lonely._

Mycroft poked his tongue against the inside of his mouth. Over all things, he wanted to help her. As much as she sometimes infuriated him, he had grown inexplicably fond of her. Isabelle was a peculiar light that shone through the bleakness of his life. As though she had seen something in him that no one else could she would come by the Diogenes (he had instructed Wilder not to try and stop her nigh on immediately. He hated the knowing look the other man gave him.) and speak with him as though she truly had nothing better to do! Still he wondered why.  
Mycroft came to a staunch conclusion and he said, "Perhaps Miss Long… Isabelle," she looked up at him in surprise, "you might stay with me for the duration? Dinner has not yet been served and I dare to say not even _I_ can finish off a whole goose by myself." She raised an eyebrow at him. Ok so maybe he could. That didn't mean he was going to! Isabelle's face burned red with embarrassment, "I thought you preferred solitude _Mycroft._ "  
"I do," he said firmly and a little too quickly, "and yet I think I'd much prefer at this moment to forgo solitude and spend the Holiday with you if you'll permit me."  
The sound of a charred log falling further into the fireplace broke the following silence. Isabelle was looking at him with something akin to wonder, a silent tear trailing down her pale face. Eventually she was on her feet and coming towards him.  
Mycroft tried his best not to appear startled when her hand too his and she twined her thin fingers with his thick ones, "Thank you so much for you offer Mr. Holmes. I gladly accept."  
Then she leant down and _kissed him_. Mycroft likely blushed from head to toe when her hand found his barely visible jawline. It was entirely too short even for someone such as he who found physical interaction abhorrent.  
Isabelle nervously bit her bottom lip, "I- I am so… I apologize." She backed off a few steps.  
"Don't," he told her in a soft voice, "It never happened."  
"Mr. Holmes I promise you I only see us as friends!" she insisted despite his soothing gesture. Mycroft felt sorry for her so lost in her own thoughts was she. Eventually though he had to cut off her ramblings with a sharp "Isabelle!"

Isabelle stopped and blinked at him. Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Miss Long I understand. You were driven by strong emotion and nothing more. I gladly accept your friendship."  
 _Since when did I become so utterly wonderful?_ The man thought wryly to himself as Isabelle smiled brightly.  
"That is what drove me here," she said, sliding a hand over her chestnut hair. Mycroft, trying to shift further back into his chair and failing, gave her a questioning look.  
"What I mean is Mr. Holmes, is that I know what it is like to be friendless. And I know what it is like to feel utterly alone. I did not wish that of you nor of me. That is why I came."

Mycroft bit back a protest that he wasn't lonely (!) and instead found her hand again, "And I thank you for it."

* * *

 **I love Mycroft in all his forms, but this one kind of fascinates me. Don't know why *Shrug***

 **Please review, fav, or follow! I gladly accept constructive criticism! (Of course, now that I've put this up I am going to find ALL the typos! Lol)**


	4. Comfort to the Living

**\- I apologize for the inconsistency of my chapter updates, I have no writing schedule (Let's just say I live in a house with two computers and a lot of people) I'll try not to keep you waiting for too long or barrage you with a million of these in one day. X)**

* * *

 **Comfort to the Living (Regular ALWTH world. Warning for major character death!) -**

Sherlock could only stare at the body before him. His throat felt oddly constricted and his mind burned with a foreign pain. Policeman went about collecting evidence and otherwise trying to avoid him for fear he might "detonate". Lestrade (unbound by such restrictions) came up behind and extended a hand as though to touch the other man only to stop himself halfway, "Sherlock."  
The younger man opened his mouth as though to say something but it fell closed again. What could he possibly say? Grey- er- Graham… _Lestrade_ sighed softly, "I'm so sorry."

The body before them was sprawled upon the solid ground of his office, though not so much that his suit was rumpled or he looked anything beyond perfect. Sherlock's lips twitched unconsciously- leave it to his brother to die in a _pose._ His eyes were open and distant, his mouth open and a touch of dried blood collected at the left corner of his mouth. The most sickening thing was the large hole going right through his forehead where the bullet had struck- blood pooled around him red and ugly.  
John seemed to give the dead man a goodbye nod before he stood up and went to his friend, "I don't know what to tell you Sherlock," he mumbled running his hands through his short hair, "One bullet, it went straight through. He died immediately and he didn't _suffer_ at least."  
Sherlock sniffed, "Sniper?"  
Lestrade hummed, "Managed to sneak into his office without detection and sneak out again soon as he shot him. Shit Sherlock, why don't you go home? We can handle this."  
The taller man hesitated to answer, steeling himself for the harsh words that were about to pass his lips. He needed to… he needed to _think!_ "I highly doubt that," he rumbled, "Believe me Inspector I am not as affected as you seem to think, my brother was an annoying arse that refused to leave me alone. While I am obligated to solve his murder I-" Sherlock was cut off when he heard a voice. A very familiar, feminine voice. _No…_

"Let me through, let me through I need to see him! Let me go or I will hurt you!"

Sherlock tried not to smile at his sister-in-law's sharp tone because he knew her anger would turn into something much worse in a moment. John swore beneath his breath, "Who called her? She shouldn't see this!"  
"I did," the Detective Inspector sighed, "I didn't think she would actually come down here," he added quickly when Sherlock glared at him. Obviously the man didn't know Isabelle Holmes.  
"Miss I can't let you go in there!" a policeman spoke. There was silence for a moment and then that same policeman cried out in pain. Isabelle dashed into the room, taking in Sherlock, John, and Lestrade before her hazel eyed gaze finally landed upon the body.  
"No… Oh my God… No! NO!" she cried desperately attempting a run towards her dead husband, " _Myc_!" both Lestrade and John moved to stop her, the shorter of the two circling his arms around her slim waist while the taller took her shoulders. Isabelle was crying hard and calling out to the body, "Mycroft! No, please! I have to see him, _please_! I have to-I have to- MYC!" hot tears trailed down her thin face in quick succession. This display turned Sherlock's stomach unlike any other.  
Isabelle struggled against her captors for what seemed like forever until she nearly went limp in their arms. Lestrade pulled her into a hug (freeing John), "S'alright, s'alright," he whispered, running a hand across her long chestnut braid. Sherlock recognized that Mycroft had done up her hair himself.

"This c-can't be... This can't be happening!" she sobbed desperately into the DI's shoulder, "I saw h-him this morning and ev-everything was fine! He ma-he made a joke about the state of America and he was eating that terrible c-cereal!"

The crying and hugging seemed to go on for ages, both John and Sherlock standing awkwardly (The majority of the investigators had left the room) as Lestrade continued to sooth the grieving widow. _She was a widow._ Sherlock thought about the relationship between Mycroft and Isabelle, the odd simpatico between the two. Mycroft never seemed quite like himself without Isabelle by his side, and Isabelle always seemed to find a way to talk about him when she too was without her spouse. Sherlock might have found it sickening before he found John, lately though he'd found it only _mildly_ nauseating.  
Eventually the DI sought to lead Isabelle out of the room sending a look that meant he was going to have to be nice to Isabelle or else.

John sighed, looking worn and unhappy. He couldn't blame him. Sherlock moved towards his brother and fell onto his haunches. His brother smelled of cleaning supplies, which was nothing new. With one finger he lifted up Mycroft's sleeve. He had soft hands which suggested no recent fieldwork (his waistline also indicated that fact), perfectly trimmed nails, and a golden band around the ring finger. No stains or signs of struggle. Sherlock could imagine his brother standing casually in front of the shooter, entreating them not to fire without any fear. His stomach lurched uncomfortably.  
His brother's pockets had been emptied of wallet, ID, etc. "Anthea" would ensure that everything was safe and kept out of the eyes of anyone she deemed untrustworthy (Lestrade had looked indignant when she said that, but the woman had given him a burning glare and he averted his gaze). A moment's hesitation and Sherlock trailed his hand into a small, barely detectable hole in the lining of his jacket. He pinched a small round object between his middle and pointer fingers. A small red and white peppermint. Mycroft always had some form sucking candy when he was on a diet as if that might actually help him. Silently Sherlock tucked the sweet into his own pocket and stood up swiftly, biting the inside of his cheek hard. John gave him a sympathetic look (entirely tedious) but said nothing.

Sherlock left the room not long after to find Isabelle sitting in Anthea's desk chair, her eyes were red and swollen and her nose was running disgustingly. Lestrade must have abandoned her in favor of actual police work. Watson nodded towards the young woman, "You should talk to her."  
"Must I?"  
"Yes!" John admonished, giving his best friend a swift shove towards the grieving widow, "I'll wait outside."

Isabelle had her hands tucked between her knobby knees, a snotty crumpled up tissue held firmly beneath her thumb. Her bottom lip was clamped between her pale teeth as she tried to restrain sobs that shook her thin frame. Already bloodshot hazel eyes turned on Sherlock when he approached. Isabelle sniffled, standing up awkwardly and wrapping her long arms around his shoulders. Isabelle was about the same height as he was, perhaps half an inch shorter-which made the hug slightly less uncomfortable than it could have been.  
Hesitantly he placed his hands against her back. She was warm and jaggedly built, her chin digging into his shoulder. Isabelle sighed, "No wonder he w-was always so worried about you, you're so thin," she managed a hiccup-y sort of laugh. Sherlock scoffed, "You're one to talk."  
She removed herself from his arms, wiping at her eyes with a clean bit of the tissue then she let it drop into a small wicker bin at the end of the desk.  
"It was great… his worry. I can't believe," she breathed in shakily, stopping herself before she finished the sentence. Sherlock nodded, lips pursed. For a moment he felt the hot sting of forming tears before he willed the emotion to fall back into the pit of his mind. "I found it more…insufferably annoying myself," he cocked his head. God they were already talking about Mycroft in the past tense! He'd only been gone for a few hours! Isabelle ran a hand down her freckled arm, "Sherlock?"  
The Detective hummed, "What?"  
Isabelle's mouth set in a grim line, something suddenly hardened inside of her, "You're going to catch the son of a bitch that shot my husband, aren't you."  
It wasn't a question.  
Sherlock smirked, narrowing his eyes, "Of course."

He watched as Isabelle's mouth formed a cold sort of smile reminiscent of her husband, _"Good."_

* * *

 **Not sure I like the ending (I always rush it!) but there you go. I promise the next one won't be quite as depressing and will actually be a "How they might have met" scenario like I originally intended for this whole thing LOL**

 **Please review, if you do I will do a little dance. Though you won't be able to actually** ** _see_** **this little dance... you'll just have to take my word for it.**


	5. A Witch and a Wizard

**A Witch and a Wizard-**

When Isabelle first found out she had magic she had been unbelievably relieved! For most of her life she'd assumed herself to be a squib while her sisters had been _certain_ it was so. Then one day she woke up secretly dreading another day with her sibling's taunting and her mother's sad little looks of disappointment (But don't you ever say anything wrong about her mother, she was a saint end of story!), took a shower, got dressed… and magically locked herself in her room. The windows slammed shut and the door locked and Isabelle freaked out like no one else could. It could have been worse; she might have blown up her room or made a table come alive! Still, the nine year old banged on the door and stood frightened, unsure if someone had trapped her (only after she was rescued did she find out that she did it to herself).  
Lillian Long had been utterly excited about this revelation. Gloria and Maria? Less so. This meant that their annoying little sister would be attending Hogwarts with them.

Appropriate books were bought, robes were made, a wand bonded to her (a Kneazle Whisker core*) and then she was off!  
The school was as beautiful as her mother described, though its design was akin to something a child might make out of building blocks- a giant, castle building child. Hm.  
Isabelle was nearly shaking with stress induced energy when she walked up to the stool and had the hat placed firmly atop her head. Her eyes shut as she tried to listen to the voice in her head.

 _"Hm, not particularly intelligent…"  
_ Oh yeah. Great start.  
 _"But brave…"  
_ Not Gryffindor! Please not Gryffindor!  
 _"Hmm… No, there's something else I have in mind for you. You're 'pretty' brave but I must say you have all the characteristics of…"_

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Isabelle nearly fell off the stool when he shouted, a part of her surprised by how quickly he had chosen her House. A few people noticed her imbalance and snickered amongst themselves, though that was overtaken by the loud shouting and clapping coming from the Hufflepuff table. The hat was removed from atop Isabelle's head and she nervously made her way to her new classmates and a free chair that she didn't think had been there before.  
She could feel the glares of both her sisters coming from the Gryffindor table.

* * *

Isabelle first met Mycroft Holmes in the hallways. In retrospect it was one of the more clichéd ways of doing so, as he rounded a corner and Isabelle hadn't been paying attention with her arms full of papers, books, and her wand (Ink had spilled inside her bag and she had failed to clean it up with magic). There had been a collision.  
Mycroft managed to stay upright while Isabelle fell unceremoniously to the ground, the objects collected in her skinny arms flew everywhere and her wand skittered across the cold stone floor. Other students ignored her (as most did) in favor of getting to their classes. Mycroft looked down at her with grey eyes like a building storm, and raised an eyebrow as if questioning how she could have possible fallen down and in his pathway no less. Isabelle tried not to scowl as she went about collecting the scrolls.

He didn't offer any help at first, just stared. Isabelle could tell immediately that this boy was a Slytherin the way he held himself all cold and calculating and likely those eyes hid some untapped cruelty. Eventually he moved across the hallway and collected her wand into his long, pale, fingers. Isabelle was only twelve at the time and her taste in men was unrefined (she was yet to reach the stage where she found guys with floppy hair and bad attitudes attractive *shiver*) but she admired his hands and the reddish brown color of his short hair.  
She saw the base of his overlarge nose wrinkled in distaste as he handled the wand, he could likely tell what the core was and understood that she was far from a powerful person. She struggled to her feet, arms full yet again. He extended the wand for her to take, Isabelle struggling to grab it with her hands otherwise detained. She managed to pinch the thick end of it between her thumb and forefinger.  
"Thanks."  
He nodded his head slightly but continued to say nothing. She thought the smile that came over him was more of a sneer but she couldn't be sure. With that he walked away, black robe billowing out behind him. Isabelle rolled her eyes.

Over the next few years Isabelle grew from a short awkward girl to a tall awkward _woman_. Gloria informed Isabelle that she looked much like a scarecrow which she couldn't disagree with. Fifth year she started dating Roger Ellingham. _She loved him_! He was tall (though hardly taller than she was) with dark brown hair that sometimes fell over his chocolate brown eyes. He had tanned skin (unlike most) and a wide, friendly smile that instilled trust in other people. Roger was also an excellent Wizard and even a Seeker for Gryffindor! Isabelle considered herself the luckiest out there, expertly hiding her confusion as to why someone as wonderful as Roger could have possible wanted to be with her-she wasn't knocking it!  
Mycroft almost never interacted with her; he too had grown into a remarkably tall person. His previously chubby body became lean and his reddish brown hair turned plain brown. Isabelle thought him entirely dull.

It seemed that all of the Slytherins at their table looked up to him, everyone trying to snag a seat next to the legendary Mycroft Holmes (she had to ask to get his name, she wasn't sure why she went through the trouble) listening animatedly as he spoke. He was the perfect student, the perfect Slytherin. He was just… _perfect_! His potion making was incredibly precise and he had gotten to the point where he didn't even have to speak most of his spells to use them!  
Once Isabelle saw him point right at her, - there was no mistaking it - a few words unheard by her passed his thin lips and then everyone around him laughed uproariously! Their eyes met, he smiled, Isabelle's face burned bright red as she realized he had just made some rude joke about her… it took all of her will not to stand up and storm right out of the room.  
"Hey babe," Roger came up behind her and wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders. Isabelle leaned against his body, letting Mycroft Holmes slide free of her thoughts and instead filled them with her boyfriend.

* * *

Isabelle ran, stumbling over her own feet and nearly crashing into walls. It took all of her willpower not to fall as she leapt down the stairs two, sometimes three steps at a time. Hot tears rolled down her pale face. The castle tended to confuse her and get her lost, sending her down obscure hallways and into classrooms she never wanted to be in. Yet this time it gave her an easy escape. The ground outside was wet and shifted beneath her feet as she continued at a run across the lawn, no real destination in mind. She passed the pond and found a patch of trees, off the forest hopefully devoid of dangerous creatures.  
Isabelle leaned against one of those trees, wiping at her stinging eyes, failing to clear her vision. A few pitiful moments passed where she only cried, when a loud *thump* caught her attention. Body tensing in preparation of some creature coming towards her Isabelle gathered her wand into her hand, " _Lumos_ ," she whispered. There was nothing within her line of vision yet Isabelle was certain she'd heard another thump from not too far away. Carefully she crept past the trees, a cold wet breeze drying the tear tracks on her cheeks and making her face itch. After walking a ways she finally caught sight of something hovering not too far off the ground, back arched and legs curled beneath the wooden pole of a broom. The figure rose into the air inch by inch and then- rather suddenly- the whole thing fell and the figure landed with a similar sound to the others, rolling off the broom and uttering something quite naughty as he did so.  
Isabelle, forgetting her fear, rushed forwards to help him. "Are you ok?" she yelped, extending a free hand. Through the light of her wand she was able to fully see who had fallen.

Mycroft Holmes!

He had a bruise on his cheek likely caused by an earlier fall and a soured expression which quickly smoothed over when he saw her. He hesitantly accepted her hand and was pulled to his feet. "W-what were you doing?" Isabelle managed as Mycroft went to retrieve his broom- not even bothering to call it into his hand, "Is it broken?"  
He seemed to deliberate over how to answer, holding the broom against his arm. So far as she could tell it was a good broom and there seemed at the very least no aesthetic damage. Her brow furrowed and she spoke before he had a chance to, "It doesn't look like it, can…can you not fly?"  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "This is hardly any of your business."  
"You can't!" Isabelle couldn't help but cry out, her voice cutting through the otherwise silent area. Mycroft hissed, "I would appreciate you not shout that fact to the world."  
Isabelle had the good sense to clamp a hand over her mouth, "Sorry."  
His expression softened ever so slightly, "No, I cannot fly."  
"B-but what about the lessons in first year?"  
He huffed much like he was forced to explain something to a stupid child, "During that class Odrick Blooth flew of his broom and broke his arm. All attention was rather taken from me and what I was doing."  
This was met with a long silence before Isabelle found the will to ask another question, "W-why are you trying to learn now?" she scratched at a cut on her arm caused by her rather hasty escape earlier. The teenaged boy scowled, "I fail to see how this is any of your business."  
Isabelle frowned similarly to him, "I want to know because I think I could teach you," she told him sharply, surprised by the answer. Isabelle was a surprisingly good flyer, though she thought herself hardly good enough to join in the Quidditch games. Roger had scoffed at the very idea, " _Iz, you're a good flyer and all but, you're also clumsy enough to score for the opposite team. Not that I'd mind if we were going against each other,"_ he had smiled cheekily before pulling her into a kiss, not allowing Isabelle to be in the slightest indignant. Now she was. Now she _really_ was!  
Lost in thought Isabelle nearly missed the look of wonder that crossed Mycroft's face, "Why would you do that?"

That was a good question.

Isabelle waved a pale hand, "Doesn't matter, are you-are you going to tell me?"  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I was considering working for the Ministry of Magic and I thought it might look bad if I was the only Wizard there that didn't know how to fly," he blushed. Isabelle tilted her head and smiled, "How about I go get my broom?"  
She was stared at for a good long time, "I… Uh, alright?"  
Isabelle's smile turned into a full-blown grin and she darted off back towards Hogwarts castle. It was getting late and soon both of them would be out past curfew, but she hardly cared. With ease she climbed down the stairs (yet again they seemed to bend to her will) until she was in the Hufflepuff Common room (one of her favorite places, the colors of yellow and black mixing with copper and a warm fire just on one side of the room) and then her own room shared with many other girls. Her broomstick was an old used thing passed down from Gloria. It had been patched up several times yet it still flew easily enough and went a decent speed. "Up," she called it into her hand, quickly turning to rush off. "Where'r you going?" Bennitta Hollister called after but was promptly ignored.

When Isabelle returned she found Mycroft sitting in the grass with his back against a tree, his long pale fingers playing with the damp grass beside him. A hot flush crept across her face but it was thankfully dark enough for it not to be obvious. He looked up at her and his mouth twitched barely into a smile before it fell flat. He stood up with his own (expensive) broom in his hand, "So Miss Long, what pray tell am I doing wrong?"  
The young woman snorted despite herself, "A litany of things I'm sure Mr. Holmes."  
She instructed him to mount the broom as she did. "D-don't hold it so tight," she stammered out instructions, "And try to straighten out a bit yeah?"  
Carefully the two rose from the ground, Isabelle encouraging him. She could tell he was nervous and uncomfortable, shoulders tense and though he had loosened his grip it still turned his knuckles white. "I-if you're scared or unsure the broomstick can tell, at least that's been my… experience."  
She tried not to stare at her own hands when he glared at her. They had nearly made it past the first branch on the nearest tree when Mycroft rather suddenly flipped upside down. Desperately he clung to the wooden pole, "Oh for the love of all things," he moaned. Isabelle tried not to laugh, edging towards him and placing a hand on the very end. It seemed to recognize her help or perhaps the other teenager had found some semblance of control because he managed to flip himself back over without falling off.

They lowered to the ground (Mycroft perhaps a little too fast) and she watched as he staggered off the offending object, running a hand through his short hair.  
"That was pretty good," Isabelle assured him. She was rather enjoying having the teaching roll for the first time in her life. He huffed petulantly, "Hardly."  
"No one's perfect at everything you know," she replied hotly, bringing her hands together in front of her and pinching the base of her thumb. Mycroft seemed to give her a look that said _"But I am!"_ which brought forth a rather unladylike snort from the girl. Why had she been so eager to help him again? The two stood in oddly companionable silence after that, despite the irate thoughts that passed through Isabelle's mind.

"So your boyfriend broke up with you did he?"

Isabelle's mouth fell open, "What?!"  
Mycroft's eyes widened, "Oh, apologies I didn't intend to say that out loud," the grip upon his broomstick inexplicably tightened. Isabelle stood there for a good long time.  
Roger had indeed broken up with her, sort of. For two weeks he had ignored her, not coming over to the table and practically telling her to "Bug off" whenever she would go to meet him. One day she'd gone looking for him only to find Roger snogging Annita Falnsworth!  
 _"God Isabelle, didn't you know? We're broken up you and I, you're just so…Isabelle. It was annoying!"  
_ This of course prompted her to make a run for it, wherein she found the incorrigible Mycroft Holmes attempting free falls.  
"H-h-how did you know that?" she choked out. Holmes looked her dead in the eye and said, "I knew he was cheating on you and I also knew that Roger Ellingham was enough of an arse to blame it on you as soon as you found out. You were…crying."

Oh.

Isabelle seized the moment by bursting into dreadful tears, "I'm such an idiot!" Mycroft extended a hand and awkwardly squeezed her arm, "You're far from a genius, but you're not stupid," he reassured. God he was literal!  
With her emotional state as it was Isabelle was certain her magic might explode inside of her. Mycroft's presence seemed to soothe her though as he pulled her towards him. She was in his arms and he was holding her like a precious china doll, muttering "There, there" a few times and otherwise sounding incredibly awkward. She couldn't help it, she laughed through the tears. "I can't believe I-I hated you!" she sniffled.

"I can't imagine… Wait, you what?"

* * *

 ***I wiki'd wand cores I could give Isabelle, wanting something average. Kneazle Whisker was basically defined as "Not very powerful" so I decided that would work.**

 **Not sure how to feel about this one *shrug* I like Harry Potter but I haven't read any of the books in like a year or more. Still, I hope you liked it. If you have any suggestions as to how I could punch this thing up I'd be glad to hear them (or just chapter suggestions). ;)**

 **Thank you Red for leaving my first review!**


	6. Bond

**Bond-**

Mycroft made his way through the aisles of the grocery store trying and failing to ignore the baffled stares of everyone around him. This was what he got, he supposed, for deciding to go shopping in the middle of the day wearing a three piece suit (umbrella included and hanging off the handle of the cart he pushed), expensive shoes clicking against the hard floor. Mycroft hated shopping as necessary as it was. Quite often he would send an underling out to buy things for him just to avoid the dreaded situation. This time though he had nothing else really better to do (an odd occurrence).

Mycroft was searching through the cereal aisle for Raisin Bran when he heard an unmistakable sniffling sound. He waited, but the sound didn't repeat itself so he continued walking. He had safely placed the box of cereal into his cart when did hear the sniffle again. Curiously he rolled around the corner to the other side of the shelf in search of the source.  
Sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, was a child.  
The poor girl couldn't have been older than six, her long brown hair loose and wild around her shoulders. Mycroft immediately knew she was lost though that was hardly a difficult deduction. Carefully he came towards her, hoping beyond all hopes that he didn't appear as a creeper- something that happened to him far too often even when there weren't children in the area.

"Miss, are you alright?" Mycroft inquired in a soft, cordial tone. The little girl looked up at him with tear filled hazel eyes. She had a smattering of freckles and a truly tiny nose which was running.  
Mycroft's heart tugged painfully when she scooted away from him, "I lost my mum," she told him.  
"I see," he softened his voice further in hopes of reassuring her, "I'm sure she's very worried."  
The little girl nodded.  
"What is your name?" he inquired, uncomfortably bringing himself down to her level. She hesitated, brushing a lock of her dark hair behind her pale ear, "Isabelle."  
"I see," Mycroft continued, "I want to help you Isabelle to find your mother, would you like that?"  
He was pretty certain he was doing this wrong but Isabelle seemed to brighten up at the idea. "How?"  
Mycroft let his hands rest on his knees, "If you come with me I shall take you to the front desk, they will call for your mother and then she will come and retrieve you. Alright?"  
Her expression soured, "I'm not meant to go with st-with strangers," she informed him, "Mum says I could be stoled."  
"That is entirely true, but I can't very well tell people to 'please pick up their daughter in the bread aisle'" he joked. Isabelle blinked, "Why not?"

Mycroft laughed lightly, though it came out more like a shaky exhale. He straightened up and pulled the grocery cart over to him, "How about this My Dear. You hold onto one side of the cart and I'll hold onto the other. I'll guide you, and if you feel in the least bit unsafe you can run away, alright?"  
Isabelle seemed to consider this for a moment then she shrugged, staying a shy, "Ok."  
Her small fingers wrapped around the metal mesh of the end of the cart, climbing to her feet. Her eyes had gone dry and her face screwed up rather adorably in determination. Mycroft noted that she was wearing pink flowery socks under a pair of shoes with T.A.R.D.I.S designs on the toes. Her T-shirt had a picture of a robin on it surrounded by a similarly flowered background; her jeans hung a little loose around her narrow hips. All were hand-me-downs except for the shoes.

Slowly he moved forwards, the little girl clumsily walking with him.  
"Are you a- a spy?"  
Mycroft forced himself not to stop walking, mouth quirking into a smile, "Whatever gave you that idea?"  
"Cause you're dressed like Bomb from Mum's movies."  
It took a moment before Mycroft chuckled, raising an eyebrow incredulously at her, "Do you mean Bond? James Bond?"  
She nodded, "Yeah, I don't like him much 'cause he's boring."  
"Oh my," he tsked half-heartedly, "Does that mean you don't like me?" he turned a corner; they were nearing the front desk. Thus far he couldn't see any frantic looking parents hanging around. Isabelle stuttered to reply, "I-I don' know you. You c-could wanna 'nap me."  
His smile grew, "I promise you I won't, but I find it good that this has been instilled in your mind."  
Isabelle stared at him as though he was an alien, "…What?"

He laughed again.

The front desk called for Isabelle's mother to come collect her child and Isabelle was moved onto a plastic chair. Mycroft couldn't bear the idea of leaving while she waited for her parents so he stayed, standing protectively close (though not too close) just in case. "D'you think they left me?" the little girl asked pathetically. Mycroft shook his head, "Hardly."  
It was a possibility but he didn't want to tell her that. A stressed parent with more than two children might easily make that mistake, which could mean a long wait for poor Isabelle. _Idiots_.  
"You could just say no," she mumbled at her palms.  
"Apo- I'm sorry," he corrected smoothly. She finally smiled at him, a bright smile that set something inside of him at ease. He was surprised by the level of trust in her eyes, when only five minutes ago she was afraid of him.  
"That's ok." She told him, "I like you now I think."

The small child kicked out her legs, hugging herself and anxiously waiting for her mother to come and get her. "D-did you ever get lost when you were small?"  
Mycroft hummed "Once," he replied thoughtfully, "I was distracted by an odd display. I of course found my own way back following certain…clues. They hadn't even noticed my absence."  
"Oh…"  
"But as I previously stated your parents should be coming-"  
"Parent. My Dad is dead." She spoke so bluntly it nearly made Mycroft's mouth fall open… It didn't of course.  
"I'm sorry to hear that."

 _"Isabelle!"_

A blonde woman rushed towards them, her short hair falling out of a loose ponytail. Mycroft could see the resemblance, pale skin and an angular face with a few freckles on her nose. Otherwise she seemed to more match the two little girls that followed at her heels- twins, five year difference between them (older, obviously) and Isabelle. The first had mud brown hair and a pinched expression at the sight of her sister and the second had short blonde hair like her mother- looking far less annoyed.  
"MUM!" Isabelle jumped unceremoniously off the chair she was on and hugged her mother's legs, "Isabelle I am so sorry!" the woman apologized, kneeling down to hug her daughter properly, "I didn't notice you were gone sweetheart. What happened?"  
"I go lost in with the breads but James Bond saved me!"  
The woman looked up at him, "Honey, I don't think he's James Bond," she chuckled.  
"Don't be stupid Izzy," Gloria huffed beneath her breath which made Mycroft frown. "Sorry," Isabelle apologized automatically before she turned to Mycroft, "I know he's not really Bond, only he didn't tell me his name."  
"Thank you for finding my daughter," Isabelle's mother said, standing up and regarding him with a smile much like her daughter's.  
"It was my pleasure."  
The family was all gathered together and ready to go back, Isabelle holding onto her mother's trouser leg.  
They began walking away when he, without thought suddenly blurted, "Mycroft Holmes."  
The mother nodded under the impression that he was speaking to her, her mouth opening to reply when Isabelle cut her off, "Isabelle Long!"  
"It was a pleasure Miss Long," he replied, bowing his head in goodbye. Isabelle waved, and giggled (more like a guffaw really) and then she was led away by Mrs. Long.

Mycroft returned to his shopping.

* * *

 **Two chapters in one day? WOW, it's like Christmas am-I-right? Pft. No.  
Thought this was cute and fluffy and not too long unlike the one before it. I don't know, do you prefer longer chapters or short?**

 **Leave a review. If you do I'll uh… Write another chapter? Heh heh (Gadzooks I've already run out of bribes!)**


	7. A Call for Help

**A Call for Help (Warning, mentions of torture and a few swears)-**

The room smelled like mold.

That was the only thing Mycroft could bring himself to think every time he travelled back into the world of the living. His first inhale was putrid and sent his mind into muggy confusion. Far too much time would pass before things could finally kick back into gear and the pain would return to him. His wrists were red and swollen from days bound by ropes, and later chains. Ugly yellow and purpling bruises shone on his skin beneath his sweat stained button up shirt (which they thankfully kept on him after some desperate begging-or what constituted begging for Mycroft that is) and rested starkly over one eye and a cheekbone which bled. There were burn marks, knife wounds across his arms, and-though it likely healed over- a small prick from when they tried to drug him. Mycroft Holmes was dehydrated and a gnawing hunger bit at his insides to the point of near numbness. At this point he had little hope for rescue and yet not a word of information passed his lips.

Across the room a heavy metal door opened and a man Mycroft had earlier dubbed "Bull" entered with a look of slight hesitation on his thick features. His footsteps echoed through the empty room until he came to a stop right before his captive, "Mornin'."  
"Good…morning," Mycroft gasped out with a quirk of his eyebrow. The big man rolled his eyes, "My God Holmes you say that every time. How in the Hell..." he traced a hand over his bare scalp.  
"Force of will," the man grinned, trying desperately to hold his head up. Bull snorted, "Right."  
Out of all the men that beat up on Mycroft, Bull was his favorite. The man pulled over a chair that screeched across the concrete floors then slumped into it, "So I pulled the short straw here Mr. 'olmes," he practically cooed, "I'm afraid boss's given up on you."  
"Oh dear… I don't-don't suppose that…means I'll be set free does it?" Mycroft hummed, eyes falling shut.  
"'Fraid not," Bull scoffed, "Shit 'olmes I'm gonna miss your smartass attitude."

Wasn't that nice. Mycroft could only imagine the truly terrible _heartbreak_ the man was going through. The bound man took a few moments to breathe when a sharp stabbing pain cut through his ribcage. Perhaps death was the best thing for him at this point! With that terrible thought Mycroft turned his analytical grey eyes upon the younger man, "Why…are you telling me this?" he questioned. He really should have been able to tell without having to ask! Mycroft bit at a section of his tongue, not enough to hurt but enough to wake him up a little.  
The kidnapper paused. His brown eyes narrowed for a moment in thought whilst he tugged at his fingers. After what seemed like forever Bull opened his mouth, "You got a girl?"  
"Do I what?" Mycroft's brow furrowed. Luckily the man decided to repeat himself rather than take this as a no.  
"I was thinkin' since you were going to die I'd ask, you got a girl back home?"  
It didn't require any thought, Mycroft responded with an affirming single bob of his head, "Yes." He swallowed thickly, wondering idly to himself why he had just lied. All he knew was that it seemed to matter to the other man and it might mean some lenience before his passing. Bull swore colorfully, "Boss never said you had a bleedin' girl!" his large hand fell into one of his pockets where a mobile phone rested, a rectangular outline ever present in his brown jacket. Mycroft stared at the object with a certain level of wonderment. Something inside of him knew what was going on but he couldn't begin to bring it to the surface of his broken mind.  
"I don' want any funny business 'olmes. I'm givin' you this so you can call her. Watsser name then?"  
He picked the first name that came to mind, "Annie."

Mycroft watched as Bull circled him and released his hands from their binds. He quickly brought them into his line of vision, rubbing at them desperately to return some lost circulation. His legs were still bound and even if they weren't he had broken ribs and no windows to climb out of. The big man plopped the phone into Mycroft's hand giving his shoulder a hard shove that almost made him topple over. "Call 'er and say goodbye. I'll be listenin' so no funny business, yeah?" his thick eyebrows lowered dangerously. Mycroft nodded, flashing a smooth, self-confident, smile.  
For obvious reasons he couldn't dial 999, and his security number was three numbers too short- even Bull would be able to tell. It didn't take long before a number he could use flashed through his mind. Sherlock's number. There was no chance of his brother being able to save him but perhaps a goodbye was in order…

Clumsily he dialed, it was a slow process and the numbers were difficult to see in the gloom. When it came down to it he had dialed three numbers _wrong_! He cursed mentally, unable to articulate his mistake to Bull without fearing trouble. Casually (as casual as he could make it) Mycroft brought the phone up to his ear. Worse come to worst he could claim that "Annie" hadn't answered which might earn him a retry.  
It rang several times, Mycroft counting them out in his head, when someone answered.

"Hello?"

He should have hung up right then and gone on with his plan. Yet Mycroft said, "Annie?"  
There was a pause on the other end before the woman's voice responded, "I'm sorry this m-must be a wrong number, th-this is Isabelle."  
"Don't hang up My Dear, I know I upset you the last time we spoke but I just…I want to talk," he shot a look towards the man across from him who's mouth was set grimly. Every so often Bull would spare a glance towards the doorway for fear one of his partners (or worse, "Boss") might come in and see what was happening.  
"I'm sorry, what? I don't…I don't understand,"the woman blessedly continued to talk. Mycroft flexed his free hand, fighting the discomfort as he desperately clung to the mobile with the other.  
"I know, but if you will just listen to me I have a few things I really must say."  
Isabelle paused, sucking in a breath, "Yeah ok," she exhaled not long after, "I'm not Annie, but ok."  
"I need you to tell Sherlock that I won't be around to take care of him anymore," his false smile seemed to falter, "Can you do that?"  
"A-are you in trouble? Is this- is this a call for help? Who's Sherlock?" Isabelle rambled desperately in her oddly pleasant voice, "Should I be calling someone?"  
"Yes," Mycroft said with a hint of firmness, "Tell him his big brother will no longer be around to clean up his messes."

"Oi, tell her you love her, tell her your goodbyes and then you're done! Got it?"

 _Charming._ The British Government sighed, "Annie?"  
The woman must have switched ears, he could hear the swish of air as she did so, "I'm here, I'm still here," she said. Mycroft's heart twinged at the sound of her voice, so soft and caring even in her confusion. He needed to get a hold of himself! Stiffly he managed, "I love you My Dear, I never told you that. I do. I wanted to say this and…goodbye."  
"No, no hold on! I don't understand please stay on the line with me; I don't know your name! God…if this is a _prank call_!"  
Mycroft though he could hear voices in the background, a higher pitch than Isabelle's and demanding to know who she was talking to. He hoped his message had gotten across, but how could it have?  
"Just, do as I say alright? Goodbye Annie."

The last thing he heard was the stranger crying out, "No wait!". Poor girl had likely just been scarred for life. Bull pulled the phone from his captive's hand and chuckled, "Not bad 'olmes. Now that that's done I can rest easy after I 'nevitably I shoot your head off," he smirked. Yes, as much as Mycroft liked the man for being at least _close_ to kind, he was still a _complete_ arse. He let his head fall back just then, closing his eyes and imagining the promise of someone finding and burying his body. Bull lingered for a few minutes before the mobile was likely tucked into his pocket and he retreated from the room to get his gun. About fifteen minutes passed before the door was opened again. Mycroft stiffened in preparation, a few mocking quips forming to be his last words when he realized that there were four sets of footsteps and none of them belonged to his abductors.

"Sir!"

* * *

Hours later Mycroft Holmes lay in a Hospital bed, his brother sitting in an ugly chair beside him. No words were shared for a good amount of time then Sherlock muttered, "Your security is terrible."  
The elder Holmes let out raspy laugh, "I believe their mistake came out of a place of complacency, no threat had been made to me in years. I highly doubt this will happen again" he coughed. "That's hardly an excuse," the younger shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. Mycroft smiled despite the pain that still lingered. He desperately wished that he hadn't turned down the offer for morphine- even though if he was offered again he would still refuse it. His brother's substance abuse had most definitely done a number on him in that regard.  
Sherlock sat in contemplative silence, "I received a visit after you were rescued," he rumbled. Mycroft whose eyes had drifted shut opened them again to look at his brother, "Oh?"  
His brother nodded, "A woman claiming to have a message from you," his mouth formed a tight frown, "That 'big brother won't be around to clean up my messes'. She seemed awfully upset."  
Good Lord. Mycroft forced himself to sit up though it hurt, "Isabelle?" he breathed. "Yes I do believe that was her name," Sherlock hummed. The elder brother sighed, "Poor girl," he nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

In one swift movement Sherlock was on his feet running his fingers through his hair, "Indeed. She seemed to be in hysterics believing you to be dead. I of course informed her that it was no great loss."  
"Precisely," the elder rolled his eyes. Well. At least _that_ didn't hurt. It was at that moment a timid knock came gathered the attention of both brothers.  
A woman, likely around Sherlock's age, entered the room. Tall, thin, and pale with freckles and flowing brown hair. Mycroft stared at her openly, grey eyes taking in every feature. She folded her hands together in front of her, "Mr. Holmes," she grinned crookedly at Sherlock. His brother sniffed, "Isabelle."  
So this was definitely the woman he'd called... The British Goverment was oddly glad about that. Sherlock offered his careless goodbyes (he must have liked her to have offered any form of pleasantries at all) and then he was gone, unwilling to be around his brother for more than ten minutes.

Isabelle walked towards his bed, "I take it you're uh, Mycroft," she cleared her throat nervously. He nodded, "And you are Annie," he replied smoothly. She chuckled, "I'm no Annie, believe me."  
He followed her movements as she hovered around the edge of his bed, staring at him with hazel eyes. "You scared me half to death you know," she said, "It was lucky your brother was so easy to find," she bit her bottom lip. Mycroft nodded, unable to think of an appropriate response beyond, "I'm sorry."  
She smiled openly than her lip freeing itself from between her teeth. Her smile took up a generous space on her thin face, leaving lines on either side that wasn't unpleasant with the rest of her (frankly, interesting) features.  
"I don't think you should apologize, I'm just glad you're ok be-because you look terrible," she folded her arms over abdomen. "Do I? It's a shame I hadn't known you were coming, I might have cleaned myself up for you," he remarked easily. She laughed again, "Let's face it, I probably look worse," she freed a hand to push back a loose lock of her dark hair.  
"That is categorically untrue," Mycroft informed her, smiling. There was a companionable silence that followed, as though nothing actually _needed_ to be said. Without any awkwardness she let her hand extend to his to squeeze it, "I should go," she sighed, "I promised my sisters I would go sh-shopping and it's getting late. If you'd like I could come by tomorrow?" she looked at him hopefully.  
Mycroft considered this for a moment. He knew almost nothing about her, though he easily deduced her to have an emotionally abusive situation at home to some minor extent and she had a job at a café (she smelled delightfully of baked goods and had a badge tucked in her pocket). Beyond all that she was looking strangely…eager, for him to say yes.

"That would be very kind of you," he told her. Isabelle took a few steps back, not looking behind her. She grinned, "That's-that's great. It's a date then!" she waved a pale hand. As soon as she was gone Mycroft allowed himself to touch where her hand had gripped his own, "It's a date."

* * *

 **Like I said, I'm terrible at ending things. Bleh  
Mmm… I like this one ok. I feel like I haven't really captured the Mycroft/Isabelle dynamic (yes, there is one I swear!) in any of these- maybe I'm wrong. Anyways I'm going to write a short cute oneshot next and then work on a chapter where Mycroft actually has to kind of court her for longer than five seconds (and there's Sherlock, everyone loves Sherlock!). Lol**

 **Thanks again to Red for leaving a review! I appreciate that you gave me a second chance!**


	8. Sick, ill, unwell, and wonderful

**Sick, ill, unwell, and otherwise wonderful (Regular ALWTH world)-**

Isabelle had a cold. Her head felt stuffy and her mind ran at one mile an hour, complete with metaphorical stoplights. Her nose was clogged and her throat was sore. And worst of all? She was pregnant.  
Anyone that got one look at Isabelle knew she wasn't having a good time of the whole "pregnancy" thing. She was far too thin, her emotions were all over the place (she found the latter very annoying which led her to getting upset _about_ getting upset and really it was a vicious circle) beside that she was nauseous at the most random of times.  
The young woman sat alone on the sofa (previously there had only been single chairs) in front of the fireplace, a pile of tissues at her feet and a bowl of untouched soup resting serenely upon a tray Mycroft had brought in. She could barely breathe and her mouth tasted like what she imagined a slug might taste like. A kick from the baby inside of her made her squeak in further discomfort. As if a switch and been flicked on Isabelle cried out, hot tears making trails down her sickly pale skin. She couldn't do this! She just… _couldn't_ do this anymore! If her nose hadn't already been running it would have started then, her hands landing on her distended stomach, body shaking as she sobbed, "I-I am s-so tired of this," she moaned to herself, her throat and nose irritated and burning.

"My Dear you should really eat your soup it will help-"

Mycroft halted his progress, a slim log hanging from his hand ready for the waiting fire. He took in the state of his wife with grey eyes. Isabelle was quite sure she looked disgusting, her face contorted and her skin an ugly pasty white, sweat forming on her forehead. Something crossed his face akin to horror, "Isabelle, My Dear what happened?" he turned to thrust the log unceremoniously into the fire. Isabelle shook her head, "I'm sick and I-I'm tired, and I give up!"  
"I don't believe you mean that," he scoffed. Isabelle sniffled, "No, I decided. I'm just going to be not pregnant or ill now," she managed a tight little smile through her discomfort. Her husband extended a hand, brushing a few sweaty stray hairs away from her cheek. She pulled back, "You should touch me, you'll get sick," she informed him, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater (a gift, it was ugly but incredibly comfortable to wear). Her husband clucked his tongue dismissively, moving aside the tray so that he could sit beside her. His arm made its way around her shoulder, "There, see?" he hummed, clearly satisfied with himself.  
"Don't come cry-crying to me when you end up sick before a big meeting," Isabelle told him with a barely restrained sob. Mycroft tightened his grip on her arm, "At the moment Isabelle," he purred, "You are my primary concern."

Impulsively Isabelle fell onto her husband's lap (much to his surprise) cupping his knee with one hand as if to hug his thigh. Moments passed with nothing but Isabelle's pathetic whimpering when she unexpectedly felt his fingers through her hair. They were cold and soothing against her scalp as he brushed tangled locks of chestnut away from her face and over her back. He continued this motion for some time, every so often brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek which would cause him to huff, "You're burning up."  
"Then why do I feel so cold?" she joked, absently tugging a sleeve over her wrists. Her joints ached with no real reason behind it.  
Isabelle felt his hands take hold of her shoulders as Mycroft eased her back into a sitting position, then effectively pulling her safely into his arms. Her face pressed against his chest, the bump of his tie pushed into her cheek not uncomfortably. In one motion he pulled her closer and closer to him until her whole body was pressed against his. She was sure he didn't like this position yet he held her protectively against him. Isabelle's crying ceased and her mind felt clearer- caused by surprise if nothing else. She gripped his arm, "I love you," she managed, letting her face dig into his warm shoulder. He hummed in response, still unwilling to say the same in return. Isabelle at one point in time had been bothered by this, but soon learned that he really didn't need to say it, she just…knew. If anything this was more proof because Mycroft Holmes thought of getting sick as one of the three biggest banes of his existence.

He pressed a kiss against her hairline, "You will pull through this My Dear. The world is only tossing you about because it's making sure you earn that happiness that will come your way," he breathed a warm breath against her. Isabelle chuckled (ending in a few fitful coughs) "Sometimes Myc, you are incredibly insightful. But you made a mistake," she managed to press a soft kiss against his pale mouth, "I'm _already_ happy."  
Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then finally said, "You're delirious."  
Isabelle laughed, though it sounded much like the sound of a wheezing elephant, ignoring the pain and the way her eyes still watered. Safely held in her husband's arms she let her whole body relax, blowing out a warm breath from between parted lips her eyes shut and sleep slowly began to overtake her.

* * *

 **This wasn't my original plan. This is more tooth rotting than the one I was originally going to write but… I like it nonetheless.  
** **I imagine it was spurred on by the fact that here where I live we decided to celebrate spring by getting a blizzard and then our furnace went out only recently to be fixed (just when the weather had begun to warm up again, go figure) at the same time as one of my sister's horse's hurting herself (she'll recover, nothing too serious I just feel terrible for her) and aching muscles due to uh…being a girl… I was feeling kind of miserable and wanted to vent through Isabelle. Man this week sucked!**

 ** _Hoo_** **. I'm done.**

 **More chapters soon! Please review!**


	9. Rising from the Ashes (Part 1)

**Rising from the Ashes -Part 1- (Cinderella)-**

Isabelle Lillian Long was used to looking at the broken mirror in her bedroom and seeing a tired, dirt smudged, disheveled servant looking back at her. It was who she was and all she would ever be. She would run a brush (missing most of its bristles) through her chestnut colored hair and pull it back into a ponytail, wash her teeth, and then she would just… stare. She prided herself on not being vain and vapid like the stuck up snobs that came into her café, but the picture before her nearly made her weep every morning for the deep unhappiness that settled within her very being.  
The thing about Isabelle though was that she wasn't one to let things stop her, perhaps delay her, but never fully bring her to her knees. So she would put on a bright smile (very glad that she had relatively straight, clean, teeth) and she would go up from the basement into the kitchen awake and ready to burn some breakfast out for her sisters Maria and Gloria.

It hadn't always been like this. When Lillian Long was alive things had been relatively happy and put together. Isabelle's sisters didn't demean her, they mostly ignored her. They had money than too, enough to warrant the large house they lived in. Isabelle had had her own room and breakfast would be waiting downstairs for her. She was fifteen when her life went down the drain. When her mother died and she fell into despair and grief, unable to fight back against the anger that suddenly came from her siblings. She could see the pain ever present in their scowling faces, the fear and the mistrust in Isabelle and in themselves now that they were alone. Isabelle had been moved down to the basement so that she could be closer to the kitchen, and her previously freestyle life had been turned into a lap of servitude. _"We can't afford to pay servants Izzy, we really need your help if you could just clean up a bit around the house and maybe cook a few meals?"_ By the time Isabelle had snapped out of her stupor she realized she had become Izzy, destined never to hear her own name again.

Carefully she scraped four eggs onto her sister's glass plates, as well as a jumble of dried out hash browns and some toast that actually cooked perfectly for the first time in forever. Her pale hands slid beneath the round objects balancing them precariously as she made her way up the stairs, through several hallways and beautifully decorated sitting rooms, living rooms, etc. until she came upon Gloria's door. She kicked it twice as a form of knock, waiting patiently for it to open. When it did she was met with Gloria's freckled face, "What time is it, seriously Izzy you keep pushing and pushing eventually I'll be having breakfast at dinner time!" she snapped irritably.  
Gloria was by far the unhappiest of the group, especially after their mother's passing. Isabelle flashed a smile, "Sorry, I was d-distracted," she cleared her throat uncomfortably as she made her way to the elegant little round table resting safely near the end of her sister's bed.  
"By what?" Gloria scoffed, "Did you get stuck counting the rats scurrying through your bedroom? Or were you mesmerized by an egg yolk that looked just like Lord Sherrinford?"  
Isabelle cracked a genuine smile at that, "I wish I had, we might have been able to sell it," she replied. Gloria rolled her eyes in a surprisingly good natured way before she waved a hand, "Go take care of Maria Izzy, she's waiting with a list of chores for you this morning."

Entering Maria's room Isabelle was greeted by a far cheerier atmosphere, the blonde twin working on a letter to their drunken uncle in hopes of gaining some extra funds- likely to no avail. Isabelle placed the plate of food beside her. Maria turned brown eyes on her sibling, "God, do you never bathe?" she waved a hand, laughing a little at her own joke. Isabelle sighed, brushing back a few loose hairs that dared cover her line of vision, "Gloria said you had a-a list for me," she said in hopes of fighting off any more jabs from the other sibling. Maria's face somehow brightened more, "Oh! Yes," she shoved the wooden chair backwards with an audible screech to give her safe passage to a wooden drawer in her desk. She had to wobble it to get it open, "This thing always sticks, I should at fixing it to your list," she commented, managing to pull it out all the way. Her slim fingers found a piece of rolled up paper which she plucked free and practically tossed into Isabelle's waiting hands, "There you go, we want this done before you head off to that café of yours."  
"It isn't mine," Isabelle corrected uselessly, pulling off the faded blue ribbon surrounding the parchment. Maria brushed fingers through her overly short (for the time) hair before she turned to Isabelle, "Oi, don't waste your time in here you can read while you work!"

"Right, yes, sorry!"

The list as it happened was nearly thirty items long (thirty one to include the sticky drawer) and Isabelle was forced to forgo her breakfast to complete them in time for her to get to work. She wiped down her face and arms (covered in soot from cleaning out the chimney) before she tied a clean apron around her slim waist and started her walk.  
Inside the brick building smelled of freshly baked goods and hot tea prepared earlier by one of her co-workers. "Morning," she greeted a customer shyly, making her way to the counter. "You're late Iz," chastised Morrow who had taken a knife to a fresh loaf of bread, the edges dark brown from where the fire had licked at it. "Sorry," she apologized automatically, swiping a hand down her apron, forcing herself not to bite down on her lip.  
A customer came in and Isabelle went up to them, pretending beyond all things that she wasn't dying inside.

…

Things changed the day the post came, delivered by a man of regal bearing and expensive clothing. He looked disdainfully at the dirty, awkwardly tall girl that had answered the door and said, "I delivery by royal decree of King Mycroft Holmes the first to the household of Madame Lillian Long," he said pompously, "Are you the lady of the house?"  
"Uh…" Isabelle gawked, a letter from a royal?! Her heart thudded deep within her breast, "I shall receive the letter for her, sir," she curtsied. The man nodded as he passed her the mail, turned on his heel, and left. Isabelle felt a lump form within the confines of her throat when she saw her mother's name written in looping script across the back. Clearly the news had not reached the castle of her passing even after thirteen years!

Carefully she tucked it beneath her arm, using her free hands to collect the bucket of soapy water and the mop which she had put aside to answer the door. Those things were safely deposited in the kitchen then Isabelle delivered the letter to the person whom she assumed to be the real lady of the house.

"King Mycroft?!" Gloria shrieked, snatching the letter from Isabelle's hands as quickly as she could. Isabelle watched as her sister's dark colored eyes scanned the back just as hers had, and then she finally sought to slice it open with a letter opener. The youngest sister waited with baited breath for Gloria to finish reading, when she finally did it was with a cry of excitement, "Maria! Lord above! Maria!" she squealed running from the room, the parchment falling free of her grip and onto the floor. Isabelle bent down to pick it up.

 _"By the decree of the late King Sherrinford Holmes III -_

 _A royal ball is to be hosted upon the seventeenth of the fifth month when dusk first approaches in the palace ballroom. Under The late King Sherrinford's command all the eligible maidens of His fine kingdom are invited to attend in the anticipation of his youngest son Prince Sherlock I finding his future bride."_

There was more bluster and pomp that followed but that was all the information needed… a ball, in the castle, all eligible maidens! Something filled Isabelle like water into a glass… hope.

* * *

King Mycroft Holmes sat stiffly upon his throne, for lack of anything better to do but look regal. His elbow found the armrest, cheek pushed against his fist. In truth he was waiting for the coming storm that was his brother, who had likely at that time just received news of his forced betrothal to a commoner of his own choosing.  
The royal considered going to his brother instead just so he didn't have to feel like a sitting duck, when the door across the large expanse of throne room opened with a dramatic *WABOOM* against the wall. Prince Sherlock Holmes in all his glory looked as though he might murder, and if Mycroft were anyone but himself he might have been afraid for his safety. He wasn't and he would never be, not even at sword-point.  
"Ah, good morning dear brother," Mycroft lazily waved a hand in greetings, not standing up. Sherlock marched quite ridiculously across the red carpeting leading to the thrones and threw an invitation onto the floor at his brother's feet, "What, is this?!" he practically snarled.  
The elder brother raised an eyebrow, "Hm, let me see." He bent down to retrieve the letter with a certain amount of uncaring, a way of either riling his brother up more or bringing him down to earth-the problem was not knowing at when it would actually work.  
The King continued, "It appears to be written upon our finest parchment, and in the script of Hanson, always very good with those swooping A's…"  
"Stop being purposefully obtuse Mycroft!" Sherlock practically moaned, "I am speaking of what is written upon the parchment."

"There is to be a ball-"

Sherlock cut him off, putting on a light feminine voice, "In which all the eligible maidens of his fine kingdom are invited to attend in the anticipation of his youngest son Prince Sherlock the First finding his future bride'!" he waggled his fingers, then thrust a hand through his dark curls, "And of course this letter was instructed to be sent out by you brother Mycroft."

The King allowed a soft sigh to pass his lips, "Sherlock, might I remind you of our father's dying wish?"  
"Just because he was dying does not mean we have to uphold that promise," the younger turned blue eyes upon some distant thing that no one could see. The King finally stood up, running pale fingers across the serrated edge of the parchment where his brother had clearly taken his knife to it.  
"I dare say I know more than you how odious the promise was, but there were witnesses. I really didn't want to bribe witnesses Sherlock," the corners of his mouth turned up. The Prince looked oddly resigned at the mention of their father, "I don't see why he didn't ask the same of you."  
Something tugged inside Mycroft, the burden was forever off his shoulders with his father gone, "He thought I was capable of finding a bride on my own, I deceived him Sherlock as you should have done."

It wasn't necessarily that Mycroft didn't want to ever get married… well, perhaps that was true. He had very little use for a Queen by his side, all the princesses he met were petty creatures only interested in position. The point was that he remained ever open to the idea. Ruling his kingdom was the most important, and watching over the safety of the next heir Sherlock was entirely upon his list of priorities. Properly searching for his "other half" was out of the question with these burdens upon his shoulders. The late King Sherrinford (May God rest his soul, if God did exist which Mycroft doubted very much) had always been very intent upon the idea of Grandchildren and a beautiful Queen showing off status. He was never interested in marrying for love, despite the deep feelings he held towards his own wife (a very smart woman).

Whilst Mycroft seemed to ruminate upon the subject Sherlock had worked himself back into a lather babbling in that deep purr of his, "There is no possible way I could choose some random maiden to be my wife, Mycroft! The women of this world are all pretty little dullards that were I to marry would undoubtedly lessen my mental faculties within the first day!"  
"Sherlock you are being overly dramatic," the elder snapped, brushing a hand down his arm in undisguised anxiety with the thoughts of his prolonged bachelorhood- as if he cared! He didn't. He didn't care! "I assure you, there are women in our kingdom that are highly intelligent and if you were to offer your time you might find them. That is the point of this ball, so that you might meet someone. I have taken the liberty of interpreting our late father's wishes that way. You will be given time to court," he smirked.  
Sherlock's lip curled upwards, "And I have no say in this matter," he responded, crossing his arms. Mycroft cocked his head, "No," he singsonged, "none at all."  
Sherlock sighed long-windedly, "Very well. I cannot in the least guarantee that I won't be deducing the party goers," he added offhandedly. "Believe me; I shall be doing the same."  
A flash of self-pity had another hand adjusting the cuff of his shirt, something that his brother clearly noticed but made no comment on. Mycroft hated crowds, people, and parties of any kind. Likely his brother was taking solace in the fact that both of them would be entirely uncomfortable.  
Placing a nail within the coffin Sherlock turned and said as he walked away, "Who knows brother; perhaps you will find your own bride with this venture."  
Mycroft didn't say anything. The chances of anyone being right for him were a thousand to one. No, he would be a King without his Queen.

* * *

"A royal ball with the chance of Prince Sherlock dancing with us and-and falling in love with us!" Maria had the amazing ability to shatter glass with her enthusiastically loud voice, "And it's tomorrow, oh, I'll need a bath and a new dress and-and oh, Izzy you'll have to brush through my hair!" she finished with a squeal.  
"There isn't much hair to run a brush through," Gloria snarked while she busily fluffed up her own dark locks. Isabelle was just excited by the prospect, absently tracing a hand across tangled braid; perhaps for this occasion they might lend her one of their brushes so that she could do it up properly?  
"Izzy, we're going to need new dresses so I was thinking we could lend a bit from your café earnings?" the elder didn't seem to really ask, a smooth smile playing at her thin lips. Isabelle opened her mouth to respond when Maria cut her off, "Oh of course she will! She knows how important this is," she cooed, "Right Izzy?" two pairs of expectant eyes landed on the youngest and she sighed, resigned, "Of course. I will need to buy my own dress at any rate," she began.  
Suddenly those expectant expressions turned to those of disgust, "What?!"

 **Oh God. Oh God. Abandon idea, RUN!**

Isabelle's smile faltered, "I-I thought I might buy myself a dress f-for the ball," she managed. Gloria stared for a good long moment and then broke out into a raucous laughter that Maria soon joined in on, "You must be joking Izzy, there is no way I disgusting scarecrow like you is ever going to that ball!"  
Isabelle stared at her feet, "I thought if I cleaned up…"  
"Oh get over yourself! Even if you did scrape the grime off of you and put yourself in a pretty dress you would still look like…you!" Gloria continued harshly, "Too much forehead, ugly thin lips, no curve! Not even a corset could make your chest appear any less flat!"  
Isabelle's face reddened and she shot back, "It's not as though I would be going after Prince Sherlock, I know I don't have any chance! I just, I just want to have some fun at a ball for the first time in my life!" her hazel eyes became watery against her will.  
Maria looked the slightest bit like she might break and allow Isabelle passage but Gloria seemed adamant that she stay deep within the basement never to see the light of day.  
"I know that it seems like a good idea now, but the second you step into that ballroom you'll be laughed right back out again. Your place is here; when one of us marries Prince Sherlock I promise things will get better. But until then? You're nothing but a pathetic _servant_!"  
Isabelle shook her head, taking a step a large step towards her sibling, "You can't do this, I have a right I'm a-an eligible maiden!" she wished that sentence didn't sound quite so stupid. "Disrespect is not welcome here Izzy, after all we've done for you," Maria warned. Gloria looked livid, "I can do whatever I want!" two hands came towards Isabelle, shoving her hard against both shoulders and sending her backwards into a wall. For someone so short, Gloria was surprisingly strong! Isabelle stared at her sister with wide frightened eyes. The eldest (by a short margin over her twin) sister's face twisted into a hardened scowl, "Go down to your room!"

Isabelle shook her head, "Please," she practically begged, "I just-"

 _"NOW!"_

Isabelle retreated, beaten down, all hope gone. Behind her she could hear Gloria shouting at her back, and Maria's half-hearted agreements.  
Isabelle rushed down flights of stairs until she was in the basement, where she found her bed and she collapsed. For a moment she couldn't even bring herself to cry, but true to her nature she started sobbing not much later.  
Isabelle had never been one for big social gatherings, but the idea of a royal ball where no one might recognize her and where she might be free of the grime and the duties of running a household… she shouldn't have gotten her hopes up. She was Izzy, and Izzy didn't deserve any of it.  
Desperately she slid off the scratchy covers of her bed and onto the cold floor, rubbing at her eyes with the only clean patch of her sleeve. She reached to her back to tug at the strings of her apron, wanting something to ball up and throw, when her fingers brushed up against something else. Confused as to what was beneath her bed (probably a box of rats) she twisted and circled her hands around the square object. As she thought, it was a box.

Eyes relatively dry she pulled open the top and reached inside. What she found took her breath away.

A dress of the softest fabric Isabelle had ever felt was pulled free. It had sleeves that were meant to go low upon the shoulders, and it curved perfectly around the chest and pulled in at the waist. The skirt billowed out beautifully like water flowing down from a mountain. What amazed Isabelle were the colors. From the top it was a sky blue with the barely visible shapes of clouds then slowly as it went to the bottom the colors changed, from the brazen orange of a setting sun to the inky black of night with the constellations sparking across the soft fabric. It transitioned beautifully as if she were really looking at a sunset. Isabelle traced a hand carefully across the fabric across the waist. Eventually setting aside the dress carefully, she dug again into the box to find a pair of shoes. Not just any shoes, glass slippers! They were expensive surely and didn't appear to have ever been worn, and meant for a specific feet. Isabelle found herself sliding off her own shoes and instead pulling on the slippers….they fit. How on earth? A smile suddenly on her face she turned to the box where she found the final item: a note.

 _"For one of my daughters. Should they ever find their Prince Charming."_

Her eyes began to water again. Her mum. It was her mum's dress meant for one of them! Isabelle gasped out a breath. She needed this. Her mum wanted her to have this! Isabelle's grip tightened over the thin piece of paper. All this time wasted... Her mother would have wanted all of them to be equal! Isabelle may have been a scarecrow, and an idiot and useless but she wasn't a slave! A plan suddenly hatched within Isabelle's mind. She would go to that ball, she would find her freedom…and then she would never return.

* * *

 **This was getting a little too long so I split it into two chapters. Luckily both are ready so you don't have to wait or anything.**

 **Please if you notice any typos or what have you, feel free to mention them! (Thank you to Red and Aubrey Cortez for already leaving reviews. You're great!)**


	10. Rising from the Ashes (Part 2)

**Rising from the Ashes (Part 2) -**

The day of Isabelle did all of her work per usual, spent hours in the café serving people and listening to the excited chatter about the upcoming celebration. She kept a wide berth from both her sisters of whom she was a little afraid. She would leave them money before she left. What little she could give. They deserved their own chance at finding happiness. Of course if they had any mind at all they would sell the mansion and buy something safer and smaller (easier to maintain!).  
Gloria and Maria spent a good portion of Isabelle's money on some truly garish dresses in Isabelle's opinions, their short, thin, bodies squished and shaped so that they might appear more attractive. A few times she caught them squabbling over who might marry Prince Sherlock which seemed ridiculous to her. Most people knew their royal family to be built out of the most reclusive of men, what were the odds?  
It was late before they started to leave, Isabelle made sure to see them off just to ensure they had no worries about her coming after them. How could she possibly leave looking so terrible? As soon as they were out the door though, Isabelle dashed off to her first destination.

A bath had already been drawn up for her, the dress hung up in the kitchen waiting for her. With ease she pulled off her disgusting clothes and slid into the hot water, scrubbing at her face arms, legs and whatever else until her pale, dirty skin was raw red and perfectly clean. The water was disgusting of course, but that hardly mattered to her.  
Then Isabelle took Gloria's hairbrush and started working her way through the terrible tangles, moving around the room in hopes of drying it off quicker. All combed out her chestnut hair flowed in thick waves nearly down to the back of her knees, and Isabelle decided to leave it like that for the pure sake of the freedom it seemed to give her.  
With care she selected a few bits of makeup which she lightly applied, her lips red and cheeks pinked with rouge she thought she looked quite decent: decent enough hopefully not to get laughed out of the castle.  
Finally she rushed downstairs wearing nothing but a blanket and collected the dress into her arms. It occurred to her as she stripped, that the dress might not fit like the shoes had. Isabelle was a tall, had a long waist and no curves to speak of. Her body was overly thin, with jutting hips and elbows, surely it wouldn't…  
As she pulled it up, Isabelle could feel the fabric hug her slim frame perfectly. Clearly it was meant for a shorter person, the skirt of the dress started a little bit higher and didn't touch the floor, instead ended just at her ankles barely covering them. These things didn't matter though as Isabelle turned to face the oblong mirror she brought down from Maria's room (she really was feeling rebellious now). She… God, she looked pretty! Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat. _What was she doing?!_ Betraying her family, that was what she was doing!  
"I can do this, gather your spirit Isabelle," she breathed, doing a swift twirl in front of the mirror before running up the stairs.

A cab (it took a long time to find one) took Isabelle to the palace which stood like a waiting dragon over the oncoming gaggle of ladies. Isabelle managed to find a side door to enter the ballroom from for fear her sisters might spot her. The room was enormous, with a huge stairway the ladies walked down from as if to make a scene with their beautiful dresses. There were few men, mostly fathers there to accompany their daughters and a few men hoping to make use of all those women in one place. A chandelier hung from the ceiling illuminating the ornate designs on the walls and the smooth finish of the floor. In the corner a small orchestra played music that a few couples danced to, though there was a certain level of impatience for it seemed the Prince hadn't done a lick of dancing with anyone (or so the gossip told).  
Isabelle ran a hand across her hair making sure it hadn't gotten too tangled during the cab ride, when she suddenly felt a pair of eyes on her.

* * *

Mycroft had been scanning the room for life stories he could deduce from people when his gaze landed upon a truly singular woman. His mouth went dry inexplicably as he gathered as much information as he could. She was tall and pale, thin and somewhat angular. She had freckles covering her nose and bare shoulders, the dress she wore had truly a boutique of colors looking much like a setting sun. Brown hair that shone the slightest bit red in the light of the chandelier fell in waves down her back where the dress dipped. There many things that made this girl unattractive to the common populace, he could see that and he was certain by the way she held herself that she knew that too. Still, she was quite…aesthetically pleasing to the eyes.

The woman stopped in her tracks, one pale hand going to the back of her head to smooth down her hair when she turned towards him. Their eyes met.

* * *

Isabelle was quite sure this man had no intention of taking advantage of the ballroom of eligible women, nor was he anyone's father. He was tall with well combed dark brown hair that was receding a little bit. He had a long nose, pale skin, a tight smile, and a bearing suggesting self-importance. Isabelle's heart thudded in her chest when his grey eyes flickered over her several times before he maintained eye contact. Raising her chin Isabelle managed a shy smile.  
The stranger wore expensive clothing, but bore no outward sign of being anything more than a wealthy man. Isabelle turned her attention away from him, what was she doing? She was here to enjoy herself and then move on.

She considered searching for refreshments (there must have been some somewhere!) when she felt his presence, closer.

* * *

Mycroft had no idea what he was doing! Really, his motives were beyond him. Still he approached the young woman with her poorly applied makeup (though it was sparse, and thus hardly noticeable) and her twilight dress.  
She inhaled sharply when she realized how close he was and for a moment an alarm went off in his head. _Steady Mycroft, this girl represents a squirrel and will run if necessary. I highly recommend turning back and playing a game of deductions instead!_ Ignoring this completely Mycroft bowed to her, barely an incline at the waist before he put out a hand, "Miss, would you do me the honor of joining me in a dance?"

* * *

Isabelle stared at his proffered hand, "Oh, uh, I, I can't. Rather I shouldn't," she blushed beet red, "I'm afraid I am a terrible dancer."  
He smiled, a false gesture with no real mirth behind it at all. Isabelle decided she had likely done the right thing by turning him down, as handsome as he may have been. _Really Izzy? Handsome?_  
"I assure you we shall dance slowly, please?" he tacked on at the end a soft gesture, grey eyes wide and oddly pleading. Isabelle's heart melted just a little, "A-alright, if you insist," she grinned sideways. A touch of a genuine smile tugged at both corners of his mouth. Yes, very handsome indeed.

* * *

Mycroft took her hand in his, surprised when her fingers interlocked with his. How odd this girl was. They fit together so easily though he couldn't begin to mind. Being sure not to accidentally run her into someone he guided her through the throngs of people until they came to an open part of the ballroom and he pulled her close to dance- as luck would have it just as a new song began to play.  
One hand found the small of her back whilst the other took her hand in a more acceptable manner. She placed a hand upon his arm, sending uncomfortable tingling through his whole body and a cold down his spine. Her whole body came one step closer, they nearly matched in height. Mycroft led her into a box waltz.

* * *

It started simple, Isabelle was terrible at dancing but it didn't matter with this man. If she miss-stepped he would compensate easily as though he knew every move she was going to make ahead of time. The way he held her to him as though she was a glass doll, afraid she might break. The ruffling of her dress as he brought her into a smoother dance step than the box waltz met her ears. She could tell people were staring at her, but she didn't mind, not with this man's eyes on her. She could feel tension in his arm after she squeezed it lightly and she felt something sink. He was being kind…that was all. Something in his expression seemed to relax rather suddenly and he moved to twirl her away from him. Isabelle reacted easily and was surprisingly deft at not tripping over her own glass clad feet as he again pulled her towards him. She braced herself against his chest, smiling brightly now.

* * *

She was enjoying herself, _yes!_ Mycroft took her hand away from his chest so that they could continue, every so often putting in a few surprises which either caused a beautiful scene or caused her to step on his foot with those strange shoes. Glass, of all things, very well made and likely hard to break under any pressure.  
The song was coming to a close so he did the only thing he could think of, he dipped her. She curved elegantly against his hand, one arm curving near her head much like a ballerina. Scattered claps echoed from the people that recognized him and were watching the display. Mycroft pulled her back into a proper standing position, amazed by the brightness of her smile.

* * *

The dance was over yet Isabelle couldn't bring herself to let go. Out of sheer willpower she let her arms fall to her sides, "Thank you," she said truthfully, "That was wonderful."  
"Indeed," he hummed. He had a voice sweet as honey, yet with a lazy drawl as though the world bored him just a little.  
The stranger turned grey eyes upon his surroundings and exhaled. Isabelle hugged herself, "Would you care to... talk?" she gestured towards a space leading outside. The man nodded, "That sounds entirely pleasurable."  
The two made their way across the room to the open area, cold settling inside Isabelle with her bare arms. The stranger traced pale fingers across a nonexistent crease in his trousers, "I suppose it prevalent that I ask before we continue, what is your name?"  
Isabelle nearly said Izzy, but stopped herself. She knew she couldn't tell him her real name either for fear he might try to find her after the ball. As wonderful as all this was she couldn't risk it. So she lied using the first name that came to mind, "Cinderella."

* * *

She was lying. Mycroft knew that right away. It struck him at that moment that she had _no_ idea who he was. This made him smile despite himself, "Cinderella? Is that truly the best you can come up with?" he questioned with a quirk of an eyebrow.  
The girl tilted her head, "Yes, sorry," she apologized, rolling her eyes, "Would you prefer Esmerelda or A-Ariana?"  
Mycroft chuckled, "No, Cinderella is fine My Dear," he replied. They found a bench at the edge of the garden which Cinderella sat on primly. The King slid into his seat across from her, admiring the swan like nature of her neck with all those freckles. He wasn't much for finding beauty in others, he never stared and rarely did he admire. But he admired _her_.

Cinderella turned her hazel gaze upon the ballroom and sighed contentedly, "This has gone better than planned," she whispered to herself, folding her hands in the expansive skirt of her dress.  
"Oh?"  
She nodded blankly, "I was worried that p-perhaps I might be disappointed, I w-I wasn't," she sort of hiccoughed and her eyes became watery. Mycroft had no idea why she looked like she was going to cry. What was he meant to do?! _Gather your wits, let her talk_ he told himself firmly. He was a King not a frightened schoolboy!  
"Is something the matter?" his voice went quiet and coaxing. She shrugged her bony shoulders, "Tomorrow," she said after a long pause, "I begin again."  
The Royal's brow furrowed in confusion, "Begin again, from what?" he inquired. A soft breeze blew, making her shiver and goosebumps stand out on her pale arms.  
"I won't say what has happened exactly sir…?"  
"If we aren't telling each other's names then I should like to be called …Henry*" he decided with a decisive nod. Cinderella laughed, a truly strange laugh that seemed to coax another breathy chuckle past his lips.

* * *

"Well, if you care to hear it _Henry_ ," Isabelle continued, wiping a thumb across her cheek to swipe away a tear that had freed itself, "My life has been an unhappy one. My family does not appreciate me, not that they had to," she corrected quickly, "But I felt much like a stranger in my own home. I decided only yesterday that I after this ball I would pave my own path. For better or for worse."  
She could see Henry staring at her with a sudden respect that made her heart flutter, "That is very brave of you."  
She shook her head, "I'm not brave Henry. I am not much of anything. I fear I won't be able to go through with it," she clenched her hands into fists."  
Isabelle felt the cool touch of his fingers upon the back of one of her hands, "I am certain you of all people will be able to do it. If you need any help perhaps I could-"  
"No! No, I should do this on my own," she hastily told him, unclenching her hands to cradle his slim wrist. He trusted her, after only knowing her for fifteen minutes he had faith in her ability to find her own path! His confidence in her straightened her posture, "You are very kind, do you know that?"  
He frowned, "Not really."  
Isabelle laughed, "I may have only just met you but I can tell, you don't want people to see that you're a kind hearted soul."  
His expression soured further much to her amusement, "I do wish you'd stop laughing."

Isabelle did make an effort to stop only for it to become louder. Henry rolled his eyes dramatically, "Dare I ask what is so funny?"  
The fact that he denied his own kindness? Of course. The fact that she, Isabelle Long a commoner with no wealth and no prospects wanted to kiss him? Hilarious! The young woman used her free hand to put pressure against her collar bone, "I fear there is no real reason for such merriment," she supplied.

* * *

He wanted to kiss her. King Mycroft Holmes the First never wanted to kiss anyone before! With all the awkwardness of a teenaged boy he placed a hand against her cheek, cradling her jaw. Her eyes widened in fear and then realization, and then it there really was no problem because _she_ was kissing _him_ instead!

* * *

He smelled like peaches and new mop water, his mouth tasted like fresh mint and the heat of his body felt like a warm blanket on a cold snowy day.

* * *

She smelled like bathwater. He liked that well enough. The act of kissing her was pleasant, though her hand finding his thigh was relatively frightening and the way the other found his cheek threatened his mental faculties and urged him to run. Still he continued, breathing a hot breath against her skin. He had to tilt his head so as not to stab her with his long nose.

* * *

He stroked his thumb against her thin cheek silently urging her to slide her whole body closer. Isabelle had never kissed anyone before but as she deepened the embrace she thought she ought to do it more often!

Of course, at this thought reality hit home. She was kissing a stranger at a ball, neither of them knew the others names, she would be running away soon! She couldn't do this!

* * *

He could feel her sudden hesitation which struck at his own insecurities. Mycroft was the one to pull away, like preemptive strike to her doing it instead. Cinderella stood up quickly and stepped away, "I can't… I can't do this, what is wrong with me?" she cried to herself.  
"Nothing is wrong with you," he managed.  
The young woman shook her head, dancing on her feet, "I shouldn't have…I can't, I'm sorry!" and with that she was running.  
Mycroft stood up quickly at the realization that she was leaving him. Swiftly he attempted to follow, nearly losing her in the crowd several times but was able to find her again easily with his abilities. He could see Sherlock standing off away from the crowd suddenly watching his brother with unconcealed confusion but this was ignored in favor of finding Cinderella.

* * *

Isabelle pushed her way to safety, given another reason to retreat when she heard the unmistakable cry of Maria, "Isabelle?!" Well, at least she used her real name that time. Henry was following her so far as she could tell, every so often calling out to her (though not loud enough to incite attention from the others surrounding them).  
Suddenly she was being chased by her sisters and a prospective bachelor, the latter panting with the exertion of following her.  
In one swift movement she turned a corner, her foot catching on a protruding piece of furniture. Her foot fell out of her mother's slipper and she nearly turned to collect it when she heard Henry's voice again, "Cinderella, I beg of you to please slow down!"  
She choked on air and made a run for it, leaving her shoe behind. Of course she couldn't limp her way to the waiting cab so the other was removed and held tightly against her chest as she ran down front steps and climbed into the vehicle.

As she rode away she thought she could see Henry standing with her shoe in his hand, watching her as she left.

* * *

Two days passed, Mycroft still had the shoe. He knew he had to return it and as such instructed his men to start gather a search party of sorts. Sherlock (who had not, in fact, found his would-be-bride) lounged upon the throne with his legs dangling off the armrests and his head lolling backwards off the other edge.  
"I can't begin to understand your reasoning behind returning that ghastly shoe," the younger scoffed, "If she ran, I doubt she will be ever so grateful for your assistance nor will she throw herself into your arms," he smirked.  
Mycroft, who had busied himself by looking out the window scowled, "Oh Sherlock, you see but you do not observe," he chastised, "I have no romantic inclinations towards the girl, merely a sense of obligation. She had multiple calluses on her hands, the skin the slightest rough. She was a working woman that likely spent her life savings upon a dress in hopes of marrying you!" he turned to his brother with a look of anger, "And I foolishly took away her chance. And thus I must return this article of clothing, perhaps she could sell them for a profit."

Sherlock kicked out a leg, "I still say you're smitten though heaven knows why."

"Oh…be quiet."

….

Being the only one of his men to have seen the girl properly Mycroft (dressed in slightly more common clothing so as to appear less conspicuous) climbed into the carriage to be taken to any of the more low class buildings where she would likely live. Thinking on it he probably should have questioned those girls that joined in the chase that night, but he had been too busy staring after Cinderella that by the time he turned around they were gone.  
They spent hours in search, Bastian the Driver asking anyone that passed whether they knew of a girl matching Cinderella's description. Nothing came of it though after relative ages of searching. The King nearly gave up on the whole idea. Sherlock was right, it was a pointless endeavor!  
They passed a café of sorts and Bastian slowed to a stop, "Sir, ah, M'Lord, it's been past lunch might we make a stop for something to eat?" he looked hopefully at his superior. Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the prospect of going into a public building to eat in front of strangers, still there was the promise of something to drink as well and poor Bastian was looking quite pathetic. He waved a indifferent hand, "Oh, alright."

* * *

Isabelle returned home only briefly to gather her remaining funds and some relatively clean clothes (as well as some good shoes) and then she paid her way into a pub which had a free room. It would take time for her to find decent lodgings, but it would do. She needed to rebuild her money pouch anyways, which meant not abandoning her job.  
The following day Isabelle walked into work with a spring in her step, pleased with the way her life was headed without the promise of returning to her family. Her sisters would read the note she left on Maria's desk (which no longer had a sticking drawer thank you very much) and perhaps they would come to the café to try and get her back, but she was strong now! Maybe, probably… no, she was definitely strong!  
Isabelle pulled on the apron, Morrow cracking a joke about how the ball came to nothing. Isabelle laughed hollowly, wishing that it had come to something. Wishing that she hadn't run away so early and lost one of her mother's slippers! She cursed that screw up with all she had. At least she still had the dress, and the other shoe.  
Her hair tied into a simple braid again Isabelle moved about the small building delivering drinks and baked goods to the little round tables scattered beyond the counter.

Isabelle had her back to the door when she heard it open. She was wiping down a table, sleeves rolled up past her elbows and a few dirt smudges already rebuilding on her hands. Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence behind her.

"Cinderella?"

"Henry!"

Isabelle yelped and turned around to face the man, wearing deep purples and greens and looking absolutely handsome as always. Isabelle felt self-conscious under his gaze despite the smile that graced lips.  
"Uh, sir…why'd she call you 'enry?" a much younger man asked, coming up from behind. Henry shot a look at the stranger and said, "Because I instructed her too. Go and fetch the slipper Bastian, this is the woman we have been looking for."  
They'd been looking for her? Isabelle swallowed, "I d-didn't think you would find me."  
"For a moment, I didn't think I would either," he replied, "And yet, here I am. I must say, this is a very nice little service you have here."  
Bastian returned with the glass slipper and offered it to Isabelle who gladly accepted it into her hands, "Oh, thank you," she said truthfully. The young man smiled brightly, "You should be thankin' Lord 'olmes Miss," he said.

Lord 'olmes? Lord… _HOLMES?_

"H-Holmes," Isabelle spluttered, "You couldn't possibly be related to the royal family c-could you?" she spluttered, face burning bright red. Good lord, she kissed a relative of the King! Well, as it turned out she was in for another surprise.  
Henry ran a hand across her short dark hair with a shy chuckle, "Well, as it turns out I am not merely related to the Holmes family I am… The King."

Isabelle thought she might pass out!

"Oh my word, oh-oh I shouldn't have… Oh I _really_ shouldn't have kissed you!" she cried, curtsying quickly which made Mycroft (King Mycroft, good lord!) click his tongue disapprovingly, "Oh don't do that," he chastised.  
"S-sorry."  
"And don't do that either. Really Cinderella I am the same man, and," he cleared his throat for the, "I believe the kiss was entirely warranted."  
All Isabelle could think to say to that was, "My name is Isabelle."  
Mycroft's expression brightened, "Well Isabelle, I have returned your shoe and now I should really be off. A Kingdom to run you know."  
Desperation at losing the man yet again (though she was the reason it happened in the first place) Isabelle reached out, "No, wait!"  
He halted the progress he had made back towards the door and turned to her, "What is it?"

Isabelle rushed towards him and pulled him into a hug, entirely unbecoming of a lady and hardly appropriate to do to a King yet she still held on to him, "Stay and uh, have a biscuit?" she said against his shoulder. He felt tense beneath her grip but it slowly melted away, "I suppose that is why we came in here isn't it… Alright Isabelle. I will stay."

And so the majority of the day was spent with Mycroft in the café. And the next day Isabelle was taken to the castle where the two walked around the garden arms entwined. The third Isabelle got to meet Sherlock who seemed to approve of her though he kept making comments about her life and had several questions for her as to why she would possibly fall in love with his brother of all people!  
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months turned into a year. By the end of that year, the two joined in Holy Matrimony. Isabelle Queen and Mycroft King side by side.

And they lived Happily Ever After.

* * *

 ***I looked it up and apparently the name of Prince Charming (just from Cinderella the Disney movie) is "Henry" or "Henri".**

 **I was anxious to just get this out so I didn't do a whole lot of editing I apologize for any mistakes made. I hope this was cheesy, it's a fairytale it's meant to be cheesy! XD**

 **New chapters coming soon (I hope!) Hope you are having a happy Easter! (Or, a happy Sunday for those who don't celebrate it!)**


	11. Random Word Drabbles

**Random Word mini fics 150 words or less (basically all regular ALWTH world)-**

 **Galoshes:**

"What on _earth_ are you doing?"

*SPLASH* Isabelle jumped into a puddle, spinning to face her husband who stood within the protective confines of the doorway, "Having fun!"  
Mycroft looked distastefully upon the display, "You're getting all wet," he complained, "at least put on your galoshes if you insist upon behaving like a child."  
Isabelle, ever the grownup, stuck her tongue out at him. A moment's hesitation and he came out with open umbrella in hand. Isabelle flipped her sodden braid away from her shoulder, "You need to live a little," she informed him. Mycroft scoffed, "If 'living' involves getting pneumonia..."  
Isabelle did a hop skip, kicking at another puddle sending a spray of water.  
"Oh no, sorry Myc," she apologized with a smile, "I ruined your suit!"  
He looked unhappily down at his stained clothing then a scheming smile formed, "You, My Dear, are going to pay for that."

 **Rotten:**

Mycroft was pretty sure his daughter was spoiled, and for the lack of another parent- it was his fault. If Isabelle were still alive he might have helped him to balance the give and take with his daughter. As it was Lillian grew to be a bit manipulative and selfish.  
"Daddy?" the ten year old asked one day, golden hair tangled and falling over her shoulder. Mycroft turned to her and smiled fondly despite himself, "Yes Dearheart?"  
The young girl hugged herself, "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"  
Good Lord.  
Dropping what he was doing he turned to her, "Of course not."  
And just like that she grinned, "I knew it, Jack Lane is an idiot!" she ran off. Mycroft watched her go with an incredulous look.  
His daughter was weird, sometimes bubbly, friendly, but mostly rude…

"Daddy, can I have-"

…And spoiled rotten.

 **Secluded:**

Isabelle watched him, the slight slump of his already bent over posture, the unconscious twitch of his ring finger. He gathered the bits of paper, a look of softness as he stared at the scribbled on pages of his notebook coming over him for only a moment.  
Isabelle watched him fall apart as soon as they got home. No tears were shed, no comfort food consumed or angry cries of outrage given. Rather the twisted shell seemed to consume him, an icy layer covering his already frozen heart. He retreated from the world, hardly interacting with her much less his brother or anyone he worked with.  
Isabelle found him three days later with a glass in his hand, empty. He appeared lost and confused to her, to anyone else: thoughtful.  
She approached him, "You don't have to be alone."

He breathed in shakily and said, "I don't want to be."

 **Incorporate:**

Letting her stay with him was (in his opinion) one of the better things he'd done. Isabelle: stitched cut in her cheek and emotionally drained. The problem wasn't that she was unlikeable or that she had any terrible habits that got on his nerves (well, she had a tendency to leave her towels on the bathroom floor which was annoying). No, it stemmed merely from her now _constant_ presence in his life.  
She was there when he woke up and went downstairs; leaving for work she would be waving him off and returning home would lead to suddenly remembering she was there. Despite this, she was a comforting presence. She'd stay with him when he prepared dinner and talk, she'd ask him about his day and share her own, a listening ear and a friendly smile. Yes, it might take some time but he could definitely get used to this.

 **Scruff-**

Isabelle eagerly awaited the return of her husband after four weeks of (location undisclosed) absence. At least this time he'd called her to confirm his return rather than letting her worry. The scuttling sound of a key fitting into the lock and then the door opening and Isabelle went to greet him with an eager smile.  
Mycroft shut the door behind him and turned to face her, a surprising sight followed. Her husband was unshaven, dark hair falling around his ears and curling at the ends. His faded clothing hung loose over his thin frame.  
"Myc?" she hardly recognized him! He smiled sheepishly, "Do I look terrible? I didn't have time to clean up."  
"Oh, no!" Isabelle wrapped her arms around his neck, "I uh, like a man with a little scruff." She pulled him into a kiss, "Myc? Y-you're going to shave though right?"

 **Hollow:**

She stared at the gravestone with a deep, burning, sadness. Mycroft remained at a distance behind her, hands folded behind his back.  
Isabelle restrained a sob, "Life…life is just a little bit emptier without you. Myc is quieter and I-I don't want to talk about John." She cleared her throat, "You were the best Brother-in-Law ever had. You were the _only_ brother-in-law I ever had. I can't…believe you're gone," a tear slid down her pale cheek. She nodded to Sherlock Holmes' headstone and then made her way back to her husband.  
"Are you finished?"  
"Yeah," she wiped at her eyes.  
Like every day since Sherlock's passing Mycroft looked as though he wanted to say something to her, something important. His mouth remained closed as he followed her back to the car.

* * *

 **This was just a bit of practice. I think my least favorite is "Incorporate" if only because it was impossibly hard to get it down to 150 words!  
I might do more of these but I'll pepper them in randomly so there are loads of longer chapters in between.  
** **As for Hollow, it is of my opinion that Mycroft wouldn't tell Isabelle about his brother's death being fake as much as he trusts and cares for her (like Sherlock to John really) which leads to troubles for him much later.**


	12. One Wrong and a Right

**One Wrong and a Right-**

Isabelle first met Sherlock Holmes in the school library when he quite rudely told her to "get out of his chair because she was sitting in his chair and she shouldn't be in his chair because it is his". Isabelle quite hurriedly did as he asked, silently admiring his whippet thin figure and his dark curly hair. Decisively she sat across from him at the table, pulling open a book and casually casting glances at the attractive boy. It was then that he said, "If you are only here to leer than I recommend closing your book and getting on with it uninterrupted."  
Isabelle blushed a bright red and replied in a voice soft, "I'm not leering. I'm admiring. There is a difference, n-not that it matters…"  
He glanced up with beautiful blue-green-grey eyes, "And what pray tell _is_ the difference," his slim fingers tapped a rhythm upon the page of his Biology book. Isabelle smirked, "Sim-simple," she cleared her throat, "If I were _leering_ I would be doing it from over there," and she pointed to a shelf, a small gap open between two books giving room for anyone to watch. Sherlock stared for a moment then one corner of his perfect mouth turned upwards.

That one smile was the beginning of a "friendship" (Sherlock would never admit it so, Isabelle was a little unsure if it counted.)

They would meet in the library and Isabelle would mostly listen as Sherlock complained about people and how simple all the subjects were. She was there by his side when three large bullies beat him up and called him terrible names, picking him up and fussing over him as though he were a child. Sherlock was there to say something scathing and cruel to one of the girls that called Isabelle a hideous twig lady (an odd occurrence considering how ignored she usually was). They were "bosom buddies" that made a relationship out of tolerating each other.  
One day luck brought them together in another way. Isabelle had been failing Chemistry so she was assigned a tutor…Sherlock. Sherlock then suggested they go back to his house because that was where all his equipment was. Isabelle met both Mr. and Mrs. Holmes that day but more importantly…

Mycroft Holmes: about three years older than she, dark short hair, pale skin, and stormy grey eyes filled with intelligence. He was tall but heavy set, all rounded edges and soft. Isabelle didn't think too much of him at first (except to be a little intimidated, though that hardly stopped her from befriending Sherlock) it didn't take long though before their own bond was formed. Isabelle laughed at something he said adding in her own quip, Mycroft smiled at her genuinely and *boom* another friendship was born. They didn't get to see each other very often, the elder Holmes brother already on the move towards his political career (a _very_ minor position in the British Government) and he only stayed at home because he had no money yet (an inheritance of sorts would come his way after a time, or at least that's what he would tell Isabelle). Still if the opportunity arose Isabelle was always with him.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Mycroft turned to her, fingers sinking into a large ball of bread dough. He wrinkled his nose, "Oh come now, even you should be able to figure that out," he chastised, turning back to what he was doing. Isabelle laughed lightly not taking offence (life with the Holmes' was made so much easier that way), "Ok, _why_ are you _baking_?" she continued. Sherlock had abandoned her in favor of finishing a likely disastrous experiment- she'd been quite eager to escape anyways for fear of death by unknown chemicals.  
The elder Holmes brother lifted the dough and then slammed it forcefully against the counter, stretching and pulling in an action truly unbefitting his usually demure character, "Because I can I suppose," he hummed thoughtfully, "Mumm-mother appreciates it and Sherlock can tell you about my affinity towards baked goods," he poked fun at himself. Isabelle rolled her eyes, "I wouldn't be offended. Sherlock thinks anyone heavier than a Yorkshire terrier should clearly cut back."  
This earned her a tight smile; it was sincere so she counted it as a win. Silently the sixteen year-old came up to the counter and leaned against it, running a hand up her long sleeve, "Speaking o-of Sherlock," she managed.  
Mycroft started massaging dates and walnut bits into the dough, "Ye-es?" he stretched out the word, quite pointedly not looking at her. Early on he'd promised to hold back on deducing things about her (Sherlock made no such promises) so that he wouldn't accidently come out with something insulting and make her cry…again. Yeah, it took a bit for both of them to figure the other out.  
"D-do you think he's interested…in me?" she hoped her face wasn't bright red. Mycroft made a choked sound, "I beg your pardon?" there was something in his expression that Isabelle couldn't identify. Horror? Disgust? Probably both. Staring at the floor Isabelle continued, "The school is having a-a dance and I thought Sherlock might ask me to… go with him."  
The conversation halted when the Holmes brother cut his dough in half and placed both into their respective tins, shoving those into the oven. Isabelle watched his hands go beneath the tap, oddly enough admiring the curve of his wrists before he pulled both sleeves down over them. She had an affinity for Mycroft with rolled up sleeves, showing the wild man inside. - and that thought made her abruptly laugh.  
Mycroft crossed his arms looking down his long nose at her, "I would appreciate you stop laughing at me, it's starting to put me off," he informed her, smiling a little. Isabelle nodded, muffling her guffaws, "I'm sorry, just, the thought of you as a wild man."  
He blinked, "What-"  
"Nothing, nothing," she waved him off, "You'll break your brain trying to figure it out."  
This earned her a scoff and eye roll, "Impossible."

Thus followed companionable silence, Isabelle noting that she'd rather accidently turned their attention away from the question. Mycroft's brow furrowed a little, a line forming between his eyebrows meaning deep thought. Either he was still attempting to figure out the wild man comment or he'd gone back to think about what she'd said earlier. It was probably stupid to have brought the prospect of dating Sherlock up with Sherlock's older brother.  
"I imagine," he started, doing up the small white buttons on his cuffs, "if you want him to take you, you will have to ask him rather than wait for him. If you do the latter you will be greatly disappointed."  
Isabelle nodded, "Sound advice," she gave him a nudge with her bony elbow, "thanks."

"Don't mention it…"

* * *

Isabelle did ask Sherlock to go to the dance with her, and he agreed after about ten minutes in his Mind Palace (though still not fully developed it was quite extensive) wherein Isabelle had another talk with Mycroft.

"Do you think he'll ever come out?"  
"The prospect of my brother forever being lost in his own mind is real My Dear. I should be concerned."

He always called her My Dear; Isabelle quite liked it though it put her in the mind of a married couple. When she brought this up Mycroft had done an over exaggerated eye roll, "Please. It is a form of endearment and nothing more," he then gave her a poke in the ribs that made her giggle.  
Sherlock finally snapped out of it (likely _because_ of the giggling) and said, "Sure."  
"What?" Isabelle yelped, a big smile stretching across her face. Sherlock waved a hand, "I will be your escort to the dance. There are a few things I want to do in the lab but haven't been able to do with a chaperone," he hummed.  
Isabelle was pretty sure sneaking into the lab to do an experiment hadn't crossed her mind, "B-but doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose o-of going to a dance?" she implored. Sherlock's lips pursed in further thought, "I _could_ use the event as a way of showing those idiots what really dancing looks like if you're that desperate."

 _Fun, fun, fun._

Still Isabelle thought of it as a date and apparently Sherlock did to because he leaned towards her. Isabelle fought the butterflies in her stomach to join his mouth with hers. She'd been picturing the moment (though it hadn't involved Mycroft _watching_ I can tell you that) she could imagine his Cupid's Bow lips meeting her thin, flat ones and his hands cradling her face as they pulled in for the most romantic moment of their lives! Except it didn't quite work out like that. Kissing Sherlock was rather like kissing a stone statue of a person, cold and dry and unmoving. Isabelle attempted to deepen the embrace a little only for Sherlock to pull away looking satisfied, "That was not _unpleasant,_ " he hummed and then walked away annoyingly.  
Mycroft placed a hand on Isabelle's shoulder startling her from her empty stare, "Well, that was nauseating to witness," he joked, pulling the young woman out of her Sherlock induced stupor. Shoving hair behind her ear she laughed a little, "Sorry about that, we won't uh, do that in front of you again." She was certain they would be able to work out the whole "kissing" thing, and perhaps their hugs could do with some work because it felt almost like hugging a living skeleton… yeah, it would work out. They would make a great couple!

* * *

Over the next few weeks Isabelle went "steady" with Sherlock, which really wasn't too much different from what they usually did together. It involved kissing (still in need of improvement) though, and hand holding sometimes (Sherlock kept trying to shake her off, which just made her squeeze tighter just to annoy him).

When the dance came around Isabelle was ready. She applied a touch of red to her thin lips and blush that helped to accentuate her cheekbones. The dress she wore was a deep opal blue with one strap, though it mostly held itself up with the sheer tightness of it- something Isabelle was a bit nervous about. Her hair she attempted to reign in as best she could- fitting it into a bun that hung heavily over the back of her neck. Overall she looked decent enough to go unnoticed in the crowd.  
Sherlock had requested she come pick him up rather than the other way around because it was an excessive journey and when he wasn't running around like a mad man he was actually a bit lazy. Isabelle agreed, walking the truly enormous expanse of village and field to their house. She though their seclusion from society was partly brought on by this distance but never said so for fear of upsetting them.

Catching her breath and adjusting her dress –which had a few grass stains on the very bottom of the skirt- she knocked thrice (for Mycroft's sake only three times) upon the door. She kicked a piece of mud off of her strapped shoes-flats so that she didn't tower over her date.  
The door was opened by Mrs. Holmes, "Hello Dear, oh you look absolutely lovely," she greeted pleasantly. Isabelle adored the Holmes' parents; with her own gone they filled the void sometimes. Neither of their children seemed to appreciate them quite as much, though Isabelle could see the fondness they shared behind their stoic attitudes, "Sherlock's still getting ready, he burned a hole in his sleeve I'm afraid," she laughed dryly. Isabelle wrinkled her nose, "One day he's going t-to burn down your house," she replied tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Mrs. Holmes nodded, "Why do you think we own twenty three fire extinguishers?"  
They shared a few more pleasantries and then Isabelle was left to wait, not wanting to sit down for fear of wrinkling her dress.  
The sound of footsteps from the kitchen provided Isabelle with incoming company; Mycroft entered the room with a book tucked under his arm and a sandwich resting upon a plate in his other hand. As though struck by lightning he stopped and stared at her, grey eyes filled with a certain level of wonderment. Isabelle blushed, "How do I look?"  
Of course being a Holmes he wasn't able to compliment her head on and so said, "I quite like the color of your dress."  
Isabelle took it and ran, "It's my favorite. Look, I got a hairclip emerald green. I thought of you as soon as I saw it," she turned around to show off the thick hairclip. He nodded sagely, "Even Sherlock should be able to come up with something nice to say about your appearance."

As if summoned by the mere mention of his name Sherlock came through the door, looking gorgeous as always- a black jacket over a dark blue shirt that fit him tightly. There were no signs of smoke or burn holes which meant the problem had been solved thank goodness. Sherlock walked towards her, "Ready? Good. Let's go."  
"Sherlock," Mycroft cut in almost desperately, "Doesn't Miss Long look nice?" he sounded like he was cajoling a child into complimenting a similarly aged toddler. Isabelle was under intense scrutiny again then Sherlock said in his suave panther-caught-in-cello voice, "Isabelle, the lipstick attracts attention away from your forehead quite nicely."  
Isabelle nearly burst out crying out of pure frustration when she saw Mycroft face-palm behind his brother's back. This brightened her attitude and nearly made her laugh. He was just being a Holmes, she could do this this. Forwardly Isabelle circled her arm around Sherlock's, "Goodbye Mycroft," she waved her free hand and smiled, excited for what was to come.

* * *

Mycroft had attempted several times to get through his book but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't internalize anything he read! Frustrated he plopped the book onto a space on the couch beside him, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing petulantly. He shouldn't have been this bothered by Isabelle and Sherlock dating, he _really_ shouldn't. It wasn't necessarily that he wanted her all to himself (though that thought had quite selfishly crossed his mind) rather the knowledge that Isabelle would have her heart broken by Sherlock at some point was digging at him. Mycroft knew Sherlock wasn't actually interested in anything long term, dating Isabelle was more an experiment for him. The elder liked his little brother, and had a lot of the same thought processes- but if he hurt her any more than necessary he was going to make Sherlock's life _so_ much harder! She didn't deserve that, after all that she'd gone through with her parents, her siblings (whom she was forced to live with) and being ignored by the general populace or otherwise taunted for not being a curvaceous beauty.  
Mycroft with an effort of will stood up from his comfortable sitting position to put his plate (untouched sandwich still on it) by the sink. He wrapped up the food in cellophane and threw it into the fridge.

Isabelle was likely having a perfectly good time, laughing and dancing with Sherlock… Was this what jealousy was like? Ug. He really didn't want to be jealous. He'd gone through life avoiding the very prospect, smarter than everyone not longing after anyone else's appearance as much as he disliked his own. Running a hand through his short hair Mycroft contemplated going to bed early when the door opened and Sherlock walked in with a test tube of 'something' in his hand.  
"Home already," Mycroft commented, raising a questioning eyebrow at his little brother. He could tell Sherlock hadn't done any dancing which wasn't very heartening and had sipped one glass of punch, a rowdy couple had bumped into him and he smelled like sour chemicals indicating a prolonged time in the lab if the test tube was nothing to go by. Sherlock shrugged, "She got upset and ran off."  
The elder Holmes brother's posture stiffened, "What?" he snapped a little too loudly. The younger looked put off, his brow furrowed as he attempted to understand what had transpired, "I told her I didn't feel like sharing our saliva," at that he wrinkled his nose, "and that I would much rather go to the lab. Apparently this was wildly distressing to her and she ran off."  
Good Lord. Mycroft massaged a temple, "Sherlock, you have a lot to learn about people, women especially."  
The younger curled his upper lip, "Ghastly," he moaned. Mycroft couldn't help but agree. Still he shooed his brother away and went back into the fridge to gather what he needed.

* * *

Isabelle sat on the lonely old park bench, shivering from the cold. She wasn't crying- of that she was grateful. She sighed heavily, reaching a hand to the back of her hair and pulling out the emerald green hairclip. Why was life so cruel to her? Did she kick a kitten as a child? Or laugh cruelly as a bird smacked into a window? If she did she didn't remember it.

The fabric of her dress seemed to glisten in the moonlight, a lovely thing even if she was never going to wear it again. Idly Isabelle wondered just how long she'd been moping when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps. Startled she turned to see who was approaching.

"Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes brother, carrying a brown paper bag, gave her an indulgent smile, "Wow, howe _ver_ did you figure that out?"  
Isabelle attempted to smile but it proved more difficult this time. She moved aside so that Mycroft could sit next to her, the bag placed at his feet. For a good while he stared straight ahead at the playground, just being there for the sake of being there. Isabelle wasn't sure if it was comforting or annoying that he didn't bring up the elephant in the room.  
"How…how did you know I was here?" she whispered. He looked at her incredulously. "Oh right," she huffed, "I don't know why I bother asking you anything."  
"Perhaps you should ask questions you don't already know the answers to," he replied smoothly, running a hand down his trouser leg, "Of course this will be hypocritical of me to ask now but- are you alright?"  
Isabelle shrugged narrow shoulders, "I'm ok. Mad I guess…"  
"It was cruel of Sherlock to treat you like that."  
Isabelle responded with a sharp, "No, I'm mad at myself!" Much like a puppy misunderstanding a command he tilted his head, "Oh?"  
Isabelle laughed coldly, "I knew Sherlock wasn't interested in me like that, I knew we could only be friends but I kept pushing. He'd rather be by himself than with me."  
"That isn't entirely true," Mycroft defended, "He likes you. He just doesn't ' _love_ ' you," he wrinkled his nose at the word as though he smelled something foul. Isabelle leaned back, a touch of damp in the wood seeping into her clothing, "I don't think Holmes' are capable of it."  
He frowned, "No, undoubtedly not."

Mycroft bent down and retrieved the bag and opened it, moving so that there was an open space between them. In one swift motion he brought out a loaf of bread and then a jar of homemade jam. With the placement of each he said, "Bread." and "Jam." In a curt to the point voice which brought out a giggle from his bench companion, "Enjoy."  
"Is this the date nut bread you were making?" she asked as she eagerly pulled a piece off the loaf, dipping it into the jar which Mycroft opened for her. He nodded, "Indeed. Perfect for moments of great unhappiness," he carefully pulled off his own-eating it without the jam.  
"You're great, did you know that?"  
"Ye-es," he smirked.

Isabelle watched him chew, the moonlight smoothing out every line on his face (sometimes he looked so _tired_ for a nineteen year old) then the calculated movement of his hands as he tore the one bit of bread in his hand into two. How had she not noticed how handsome he was? How elegant he sat with his legs crossed at the ankles. He noticed her staring and hummed, "Sherlock said you had the propensity to leer." And then out of nowhere turned to her and sighed, "Would you be terrible uncomfortable if I kissed you right now?"  
"I uh, wha…no?" she yelped.  
"Good," he demurred and with that he met her lips with his.

Screw kissing Sherlock, Mycroft was so much better!

His hand met her cheek cradling her jaw, the other just barely making it to her hip, he was certainly hesitant, tense, and either out of practice or completely clueless about the process yet he kept going. Isabelle let out a hum, retreating to take a breath and then place a few against the corner of his mouth before pushing again. It wasn't long Isabelle could certainly say that about it, but it was by far one of the most pleasurable experience of her life. He ended it by placing a soft peck upon the back of her hand, letting his own fall safely onto his lap.  
Isabelle stared at the enigma that was Mycroft Holmes, "I-I bet on the wrong horse," she breathed, "Do you think Sherlock'll be ok?"  
He snorted, "Good Lord no, though that has nothing to do with your previous relationship."

She could just imagine Sherlock's cries of distress and annoyance. All well, perhaps he deserved it _just a little._

* * *

 **Is it creepy if Isabelle is sixteen and Mycroft is nineteen? In the original Mycroft is six years older than she is but they aren't teenagers. (This also means that Sherlock is three years younger which normally would change the dynamic between the brothers but we'll pretend it hasn't lol)**

 **Thank you for the thousandth time to Red for leaving a review! I'll just keep thanking you until it gets annoying. X)**

 **Review, I have a lump of chocolate that used to be in the shape of a rabbit! I'll share!**


	13. Apparition

**Apparition-**

The first she saw of him he was a stranger standing outside of her building looking bored. An umbrella hung off his arm and he casually checked his pocket watch.

"'scuse me," she said to him, for he stood in her way. The gentleman blinked, "Oh, I beg your pardon," and he moved aside. Isabelle could feel his gaze on her back as she went into the building.

...

The second was in the middle of the night. Isabelle woke up in need of a bathroom when through the darkness she saw a figure waiting at the end of her bed. It took all she had inside her not to scream- or worse wet herself.

The man stared at her, "How can you see me?" he mused aloud.

Isabelle closed her eyes and opened them again, she slid back against her pillow when it proved not to be a dream. A stranger was indeed standing in her bedroom!

The gentleman swung his umbrella up to rest against his shoulder, clearly waiting for a reply.

"Wh-wha-what are you doing here?"

"Waiting."

It took several more prods before he explained further, "I am a Ghost."

For obvious reasons Isabelle didn't believe him.

"Come closer and see," he told her. She reluctantly did as he asked, reaching out a hand and putting it right through his stomach. Air left her lungs like on explosion had gone off inside of her. The Ghost did naught but smile.

...

"What are you doing here?" Isabelle asked, three hours after the revelation.

He was "sitting" (hovering just above the surface) of her bed when he replied in the same manner, "Waiting."

"For what?"

Something dark filled the room making it endlessly cold. A drop of blood falling from his fingers and disappearing into nothingness as soon as it touched the carpet, "For my brother to solve my murder. Until then I cannot move on."

Isabelle longed to comfort him with a hand on his arm but knew she couldn't.

"You asked how I could see you..."

"Since my untimely passing, you're the first."

...

The following day she saw him outside of her building, pocket-watch in hand.

"Did you die near here?" Isabelle asked.

He pointed, "In a warehouse three miles that way."

"And your brother is going to help you?"

His mouth formed a grim line, "One can hope."

...

"Why are you crying?"

"Shit, don't do that!"

Mycroft grinned like the cat that ate the canary.

Isabelle wiped at her eyes, "I'm a useless idiot," she shrugged.

Silence.

"Shall I haunt your sisters' rooms again?"

She laughed, "No, I'm good, it wasn't them this time...I was laid off."

The Ghost scoffed, "Idiot."

" _Oh..._ "

"Not you, the idiot that fired you. Pay attention."

"Sorry."

Mycroft (for his name was Mycroft) checked his pocket-watch yet again, "I have been thinking about you. There is a woman I used to work with looking for a secretary. Madelyn Ross I'm sure she would hire you if you spoke to her," he named off an address which Isabelle felt the need to write down.

"I don't know if I could do that."

He hummed, "Consider it."

...

"Mycroft? What was life like when you were alive?"

"Sometimes dangerous, never dull."

"Do you miss it?"

He thought quite deeply, "I miss food and the sensation of actually touching things. If am to be brutally honest I am more concerned for the sake of my brother."

"And England," Isabelle poked a hand through his which he claimed tingled.

He nodded.

"Do you believe he'll really find your killer? Be honest."

"I do. I'm positive he wouldn't give up, he loves a challenge."

Isabelle wanted to hold him and never let go, "What's your brother's name?"

"Sherlock."

...

He stood outside staring at his timepiece with intense longing. Isabelle traced a hand down his back bringing him out of his stupor.

"Want to talk?"

"Always."

...

He was running down the street, he turned swiftly, coat billowing around his ankles.

Isabelle stared at him from where she stood, wanting to see the place of Mycroft's demise. She listened to him shout to a shorter man coming up behind him.

"It was right in front of me the whole time!"

"What, Sherlock slow down!"

"Belgravia!"

"...All of it?"

...

"Mycroft, I got the job! Myc, oh my God I got the job!... Mycroft?"

She rushed about in front of her building. When he didn't come she went upstairs.

"Mycroft! Are you here? Where are you? I got the job with Madelyn Ross!"

He didn't come. Nor the day after, or the day that followed.

Isabelle found the answer she sought on a blog page by a one Dr. John H Watson:

 _"I'm afraid I can't disclose the facts about this case. What I can tell you is that Sherlock finally found the man that killed his brother. Sometimes I still find him staring into space but things are finally starting to return to normal."_

Isabelle stared at the screen blankly, a great loss settling inside of her. He was at peace...he didn't need to wait any more.

Later she found a silver pocket-watch on her pillow.

* * *

 **I'm sure the people following me that aren't reading this story are like "Ohmygawd shut up already!" to which I say: NEVER!  
I'm going to try and hold back a little though if I get any more ideas. One a day at most *winkie face***

 **I still have that chocolate! It's a bit...gnawed on. But it's still good!**


	14. April Fools!

**April Fools-**

Isabelle came downstairs to find her husband immersed in a book at the breakfast table.

He flipped a page looking almost excited (as excited as Mycroft could get with anyone watching) before something in his expression suddenly fell, grey eyes rapidly taking in the words on the page and his eyebrows dipped lower and lower. Isabelle bent down to catch a glimpse of the cover when he slammed it heatedly down upon the table, narrowly avoiding his cereal bowl which he'd pushed forward not too much earlier.  
"Good morning My Dear," he flashed the fakest smile she'd seen in a while. Isabelle had no idea why he bothered; he knew that she knew when he wasn't sincere in his smiles.  
"Morning Myc," she replied, sitting in her assigned seat and plucking her fork off of the tabletop to attack her own breakfast. She watched him for a moment, clearly contemplating what he was going to do next. Ever the dutiful wife she did the only thing she could think of to snap him out of his uncharacteristic confusion- she took the book. It was old, battered, and thick. The pages were thin, the spine nearly fallen off. Mycroft made a move to get it back but Isabelle shot him a warning glare that said she wasn't afraid to hurt him.

"What is this?" Isabelle asked, shoving aside her plate and setting the book down delicately so that she didn't break it further. "A book, obviously."  
"Myc, I really don't need the sass right now. What is this?" she persisted, flipping the cover open and taking in the scrawl in the upper left corner. A gift to and from people she didn't know- a relative of Mycroft she deduced. Her husband petulantly tapped a finger against the dark wood and said, "I found it in the attic."  
Ah yes, Spring Cleaning. Mycroft had a tendency to go overboard and likely had a near heart attack remembering that he had an attic and that it was likely filled with dust bunnies. A fondness cooled Isabelle's annoyance with him and she nodded, "What's it about?"  
A pause and then, "Read for yourself."

Isabelle flipped it open to a random page, "The Silver Blaze," she read aloud, "Sher-Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"  
He nodded.  
Isabelle took her sweet time reading through the story, taking in the fact that this book was clearly old and also very much real in her hands. She shot a look at Mycroft who's face told her he believed it to be just as real as she did. Though unlike his Isabelle's mouth split into a grin, "This is amazing Myc! Can you imagine someone coming up with the Sherlock and John characters before they even existed? Or better yet, what if they were real?" she flipped back to the first page where it described the situation nearly as it happened to their Sherlock and John. Things were changed of course, the time period was far back- but still!  
"It is full of inaccuracies and mistakes, at one point the author gets John's name wrong," Mycroft droned, "but it is extensive and well thought out."  
Isabelle let her hands rest upon the pages, "Myc, is something wrong?" she asked. What on earth could have brought on such a miserable attitude from her usually unflappable husband?

Isabelle could see the indecision pass through before he took the book from her hands and flipped to a page farther into the book. With an unhappy sigh he placed it in front of her and pointed.

 _"The Greek Interpreter."_

Isabelle upon inspection of the first page felt something tingly run through her fingers, "You're in this story," she breathed excitedly. "Indeed I am," Mycroft replied smoothly, "I urge you to keep reading."  
Shooting him a confused frown she turned back to reading. Everything said was entirely true of her husband- he was incredibly smart and often too lazy to take cases… Yes, yes, omniscient… And then they actually introduced the character and Isabelle understood her spouse's foul mood.  
""I'm glad to meet you, sir." said he, putting out a broad, fat hand like the _flipper of a seal_."" Isabelle blinked at the pages, "Oh Myc…" She looked up at him with a pitying expression, "I wouldn't put too much stock in this. It's…it's just a silly story."  
Mycroft waved a dismissive hand, "I don't of course. I'm merely bothered by the insinuation that this character- that happens to run the government and is brilliant beyond words- would let himself become as such," he rambled, "And really how dramatics, the 'flipper of a seal' of all things. Ridiculous. I'm hardly like that at all."

Oh God, if she didn't feel so sorry for him she might have laughed out loud!

With a bout of cleverness that she never knew she had Isabelle said, "Wait, hold on. Isn't it April first?"  
Mycroft blinked, "Yes, and what does that have to do with anything?"  
Isabelle closed the book with a decisive snap, "It means that it's April Fools and your brother is a child."  
He stared blankly at her, "April Fools?"  
This was harder than it had to be. "April Fools is a day where people prank each other; it's all over the place. Hasn't anyone at work ever-"  
"Not if they wanted to keep their jobs. Or their lives," he smirked. Isabelle fought rolling her eyes, "Anyways I imagine Sherlock had someone write this and then he planted it in your attic knowing that you're neurotic," she gave his arm a playful shove, "It's not real it's just your brother being an arse."  
A look of mock hurt and then he was thoughtful. It was a long shot that someone as smart as he was would believe that. But in the end it rather came down to him _wanting_ to believe it. "Ludicrous and childish of my brother I must say," he cleared his throat giving her a swift kiss that curled her toes. He brushed hairs away from her neck, "Thank you My Dear."

Isabelle watched as he moved to pick up the book but something inside of her urged her to stop him, "Can I- can I keep it for a little while, you know, before you throw it at your brother's head?" she smiled innocently. Mycroft shrugged, "Alright, when you're done I highly suggest returning it to the attic for fear it might fall into another person's hands."  
He collected his bowl and spoon as well as a folded up newspaper and went to the kitchen. Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband was a wonderful man but he had a tendency to fixate upon things, luckily he accepted the out.  
Curiously she flipped the book open again, finishing the Greek Interpreter (didn't John's blog of something of that sort?… she hadn't read anything from it in ages!) and going through a few more before she found another, far more interesting story: "The Bruce Partington Plans."

"Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-grey, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind."

Yes, the book may have been wrong about a lot of things (like describing Lestrade as Weasel like) but it understood Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

 **I adore that description of Mycroft in the BPP, it's lovely and lets you know how epic he really is. (To let you know how weird I am and how much I love the character: I'm dressing up as Mycroft for a costume party/birthday party. A short, blonde, female Mycroft. Haha)**

 **So there you go, it's not as good as I wanted it to be (but when is anything I write like that really?) but I'm satisfied enough with it to put it up here for your amusement.**

 **Again thank you Red, I'm going to need your address so I can send you that chocolate… You're writing your own MycroftxOC fic? Is it open for public consumption? XD**


	15. Home invasion (Part 1?)

**Home Invasion –Part 1? - (Doctor Who)**

Isabelle was generally shy of strangers. Scratch that- she was completely and utterly shy of strangers. But that was a good thing really. A twelve year old girl had a right to be a bit wary about odd people that -for all she knew- might try to hurt her. The prospect of being taken or abused ran through her head as she approached him. That is to say… the unconscious man in her yard.

It was dark and the cold air bit at her bare arms and stiffened her fingers. Isabelle's hair fell loose around her shoulders having been ready for bed when she heard the crash. With extreme trepidation she approached the man who laid face first in the dry grass, his clothes hanging off him -too wide in the shoulders. Sucking in a breath she fell onto her haunches and placed a hand upon his shoulder, despite the chill he was very warm. "S-sir? Mister uh, are you ok?" she yelped. She wished her mother was home or that she had thought to wake one of her siblings, but no, there she was all on her lonesome with the solitary caw of an annoyed crow as her only companion.  
She gasped when a golden light like a million tiny fireflies fluttered around him, Isabelle stumbling backwards and landing on her rear with a heavy *thump*. Suddenly the man lifted his head and a similarly golden mist flew from his open mouth and dissipated into the cool night air. As quickly as they came the fireflies disappeared and the two were left in darkness. The stranger coughed a few times and rolled onto his back, not saying anything. Breathing unsteadily Isabelle stood up and brushed grass off her pajama pants, "Are you ok?" she asked again. She hugged her arms to her body in a defensive pose, now, more than a little bit terrified. Was he a monster? Was he magic?! As though he'd only just realized she was there the man sat up and twisted around, "Oh, hello," he greeted with a pleasant smile- something she could tell was completely foreign to his face and entirely fake, "Interesting revelation: I don't really want to get up. Mm, of course I should really find my TARDIS. I don't suppose you could look for me?"

"T-TARDIS?"

"Yes, a little… No, well I must assume from your perspective it would be a _large_ blue police box. If you could retrieve that for me I would be entirely grateful. _Perhaps_. I really don't know if I'm the grateful type," and with that he stood up, swaying a little bit on spindly legs. Suspenders were the only thing keeping his trousers on and even then they still hung low around his narrow hips. Isabelle retreated a step, "I d-I don't understand," she managed. The look he gave her was that of a genius looking down on an idiot bringing an uncomfortable blush to her pale cheeks, "Shall I repeat myself?" he raised an eyebrow as he brushed pale fingers down his sleeve which at the very least didn't cover his hands. Isabelle shook her head, "I need to find your big blue police box called TARDIS," she huffed, "I don't _want to_ though."  
The stranger considered this deeply for a moment then with a flourish said, "I don't suppose you have fish fingers?"

…

Isabelle looked nervously through the kitchen, seeing no one she stepped inside and flipped on the lights. She blinked at the harshness of it, biting her lip a little before she said, "Come in." and waved him forwards. When he didn't immediately do as she asked she extended a hand and joined their fingers. The still warmth his body gave off felt like holding an electric blanket. The man allowed her to pull him, his free hand shoved into a trouser pocket, a portion of the fabric collected in his fists to properly hold them up. Smiling to herself despite her trepidation at bringing a complete stranger into her house Isabelle released his hand near the table and went to the freezer to find some form of fish product. She didn't know what really spurred her to allow him in. There was something about him that seemed to swallow the fear and send it into digestion… which now that she thought of it was a weird analogy. Standing on tiptoes (for she was yet to reach her growth-spurt) Isabelle grabbed at a box of breaded fish-fingers and closed the freezer door after her- they didn't have any custard. She hustled over to the oven and flipped it on to preheat, "It'll take a bit," she informed him.

The man had found a chair which he sat primly upon, hands tented in front of him as he thought to himself. Isabelle watched for a moment, taken in by his clouded grey eyes and the slight twitch of his lip. His hair was reddish orange- ginger, though Gloria often complained that a person wasn't ginger unless they also had green eyes so perhaps he could only be classified as a redhead. Besides that he had a long nose and deadly pale skin, rounded shoulders, and thin perfect fingers. Isabelle sat awkwardly across from him, "What's your name?"  
"Pardon?" he hummed, coming free of his reverie to look at her. The young girl kicked out a short leg, "It-it might make me feel better if I knew your name," she looked down at the table as if to collect herself, "Sorry."  
She looked up again when he sniffed disdainfully, "No need to apologize. The Doctor," he extended a hand to shake, his hand nearly consuming hers.  
"Your name is 'The'?" Isabelle grinned sideways at him. The Doctor blinked stupidly at her, "I don't believe anyone's ever said that to me before. How odd," he huffed, crossing one leg lazily over the other. Isabelle decided that everything this man did could be described as either "lazy" or "sluggish", though he might claim "calculated" and "well thought out" were better descriptions. Standing up to check on the oven Isabelle replied, "I've always been odd."  
"Be that as it may, I'd much prefer you call me The Doctor rather than _The_ if you don't mind miss-"  
"Isabelle…Long. Isabelle Long," the young girl cleared her throat embarrassedly. The Doctor's previously blank expression allowed a smile that extended to his eyes -the first she'd seen. Goodness but he had a nice smile! Not exactly a handsome one, not a great one, just a _nice_ one which (coincidently enough) fulfilled Isabelle's requirements for friendship.

The oven had preheated and thus Isabelle poured the frozen food haphazardly onto a pan, neglecting to put down foil first. Shoving a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear (pointlessly because it fell back out again) she slid the pan into the oven.  
The steady tick of the timer in the corner set out to make their waiting awkward and uncomfortable. The Doctor pulled off a strip of red fabric that hung loosely around his neck and tucked it into his pocket then suddenly became fascinated by his hands like a newborn. Isabelle wondered if he might have some mental hangup the way his moods swung from one to the other and then back again. Still there lay a superior attitude beneath his mania, cool, calm, and collected. Curling her legs beneath the bottom of her seat Isabelle let her hands fall into her lap, "Uh, The Doctor?"  
He looked up from his clearly fascinating appendages, "Yes?" the corners of his mouth turned up a little, amused by the use of The in his name. With one stuttering breath Isabelle managed to yelp, "Why are you here, why are you wearing someone else's clothes, what's a TARDIS?" Did she sound stupid? Hm, she probably sounded stupid! Mentally demeaning her intelligence the young girl blushed, "I-if you want to answer."  
Something in his expression spoke if darkness Isabelle couldn't begin to comprehend, "I should go."

"What?"

Isabelle flew from her chair to watch him make his escape, long legs carrying him to the doorway where he suddenly stopped. Frowning she came up behind and saw why. It was raining. Pouring actually. With a muffled thump The Doctor let his head rest against the doorframe, stormy grey eyes sad and a little watery. Isabelle's insides twisted, "Are you lost?"  
In a soft voice he replied, "No. I'm not lost. But I am far from found either," the corner of his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile but couldn't. Silently the young girl moved into the space beside him, staring out at the dark outside.  
"It takes a while to be found. A kid at school got lost and it took a week to find him… but they found him which is the important bit," she looked at him with wide hazel eyes. The Doctor huffed, "Your story implies being lost in the first place."  
"Oh, right," she couldn't help but roll her eyes. The steady patter of water hitting the cold ground soothed her. She'd always been fond of rain, unless of course there was a picnic planned or a park trip. The tall man beside her crossed his arms, "I'm not the one that needs to be found. At the moment I couldn't be any less important if I tried… you asked me what happened so I'll tell you. I _changed_ Miss Long, I fell and I changed and now I don't know who I am or exactly what I look like and my personality is foreign to me."  
"How did you change, are you… are you normal?"  
"Like I said, there is nothing but oddity in this world. How could I possible be normal?" this time he allowed a proper smile, a flash of pale white teeth and tight little lines on either side of his mouth. The young girl was rather annoyed that he kept talking them in circles and so said, "How did you change?"

This apparently took some careful consideration on The Doctor's part. At least he didn't appear near tears anymore which seemed an odd sight with his previously grim expressions and flash smiles. A burst of lightning off in the distance tensed Isabelle's shoulders, startled, she nearly yelped with the heavy boom that followed. The slim figure beside her didn't react in the least, merely turning grey eyes upon the short girl, "I fell."  
Well.  
She looked confused so he elaborated, "I was…running," he wrinkled his overlarge nose at the word, "Not _away_ from anything mind you, in search of my brother or… something to that effect." In the ensuing silence Isabelle took his hand in hers. The heat seemed to by dying down which lead to cold fingertips pressed against her palm.  
"I need to find him," The Doctor continued, blissfully ignorant to her touch, "If I do not there is a chance he will die or be lost himself… I really should go," he cleared his throat.

Isabelle's heart went out to the stranger. As _strange_ as he was. Removing her hand from his and rushed away from him and out of the kitchen into the living room where another door was located. Purposefully she pulled an umbrella from the stand by the old oak door and brought it back to her companion. Her mother was likely going to be upset by its absence; it was an expensive old thing the color of charcoal with a wooden handle and a sturdy base. Still this was one time she was willing to risk troubling her parent. The Doctor had gone back to the table though he remained in a stiff standing position. His gaze locked on the item in her hands and his practically beamed, "How kind of you Miss Long," he accepted the proffered object, "I appreciate your giving me shelter."  
"You're welcome," she bobbed her head.  
The Doctor swung the umbrella up to his shoulder looking suddenly less awkward despite the ill-fitting clothing and the childish little hum of satisfaction he made. With the heavy click of his old-fashioned shoes he made his way to the door.

"Wait!"

He stopped; "Yes?" he raised an eyebrow at her. Isabelle kicked her toe against the floor, "Can I come with you?"  
She had no idea the depth in which that question hurt him. No idea what "coming with him" meant to him. Though she got an idea when his grey eyes widened and he uttered a swift, "No!"  
Isabelle's fingers balled up a patch of her pajama pants, "Why not?"  
The strange man gave her another one of his _you really are an idiot_ stares that at this point she thought he did unintentionally before he said, "Because you are a child and you cannot begin to understand."  
Ouch.  
The Doctor regarded her with a tilt of his head, "I promise we will meet again Miss Long, it might take twelve years…"  
Isabelle shrugged, "I can wait."

Isabelle could barely see his retreating figure through the gloom of night, the umbrella held an even distance above his head. What an odd occurrence. What an odd man. But then again Isabelle was used to odd. _She_ was odd. Isabelle wondered if she would actually see The Doctor (Man from the future? Alien? Mentally unstable person that ran away from an insane asylum and collapsed in her yard?) again. No, the chances of that were miniscule. And besides, did she really want to?

Isabelle was pulled from her thoughts by the smell of burning fish fingers.

* * *

 **I got really frustrated trying to write this- so I'm sure things are OOC (with Mycroft it makes some sense, he's just regenerated) and that it's full of typos (and just overall sucks) but I couldn't bring myself to read it over again! *UG* haha  
This actually goes along with a story I wrote a while ago called "Protecting what Matters" which if you read it ****_might_** **help you to understand this one but maybe not and I certainly wouldn't force you to. At any rate I think I'll be writing a sequel later (though there might be stuff in between)** **wherein Isabelle will be an adult and thus easier to write.**

 **Red: You just reviewed Letters too… I think you're my favorite person right now! lol. Ah, gotcha. Well, if you do ever put up your fic- tell me and I'll be there to read it and review every chapter X)**


	16. An Enclosed Meeting

**An Enclosed Meeting-**

Mycroft strongly disliked social gatherings. It didn't matter the size, big or small. They were all terrible. Big gatherings meant an overwhelming number of people (obviously) and the horrible drone of everyone talking at once so that one could not hear themselves _think_. In a large gathering of people there was more chance of getting knocked into or touched in general really *shudder* among other more unpleasant things.  
In small parties people recognized you, you couldn't move without someone noticing and internalizing the information, nor say anything without others hearing your conversation and rudely pushing their way into it.

This was the latter of those two things.

It wasn't as though Mycroft couldn't handle a small gathering; out of the two he might prefer them. What truly burrowed its way beneath his skin was the pretty young woman at that moment waiting for him downstairs. His mother introduced them a year ago at a gathering much like that one and ever since she'd had her eyes set on him. Not because she found him wildly attractive, nor favored his intelligence. Nay, that would be too human of her! What brought her to him much like the proverbial moth to a flame was the promise of money -of which Mycroft had a good supply.  
As he climbed the stairs of his most recent childhood home Mycroft contemplated escape. He might climb out of a window and risk ruining a good suit (or falling and breaking a limb). That is not to mention the _energy_ required to climb down a tree or a drainpipe… No, that was hardly a possibility. Option B required Sherlock and plan C involved a swordfish… Mycroft casually strode through the hall towards the bathroom and considering just how he might fake pneumonia when he heard her voice.

"Mycie!"

If there was one thing Mycroft detested it was when his name was made _cute_. In a rare show of panic he travelled through the first door he saw. A closet… Perfect!. Shutting the door behind him Mycroft forced his way to the back of the small space and pressed his back against the wall. This was cowardly and judging by how he usually handled people, completely out of character. Still he listened carefully to the sound of Rita's high heels and her (in his honest opinion) screechy voice as she called out to him.  
"I could have sworn he came up here to use the bathroom," she huffed like a spoiled little girl. He could just imagine the pigtails.  
"How about you look downstairs? I-I'll keep an eye out," a joking voice, much more melodic and enjoyable to the ear. Mycroft didn't recognize the person behind it (female was all he could really make out), how odd. Rita agreed to the stranger's terms and flounced down the stairs. Silence followed. Mycroft had just considered freeing himself of the dusty confines of the closet when the door opened and a tall figure ushered herself in backwards. The door closed with a click just as she bumped into him causing her to gasp in surprise and stand straight as a rake. She didn't turn around as in a quiet voice she uttered, "I guess y-you and I had the same idea."

Well, this was a predicament. Mycroft swallowed thickly trying not to feel claustrophobic with another person so close to him in such a confined space. He could feel the fur of a mink coat (clearly fake) just behind his head but otherwise the rack remained empty.  
"I'll just…I'll just leave shall I?" the girl chuckled in a forced attempt at lightheartedness. Mycroft heard the rattle of the door handle several times before she choked, "It's locked. Oh God, I-I locked us in a _closet_!" she yelped, the latter sentence repeated a few times in a whisper.  
She had long hair, very long hair actually, and from what he could tell through the darkness- she was skinny. This was proven when she bumped her bony elbow into his stomach as she turned around, "Sorry!" the woman's hands flew out and brushed against his shoulders which made her apologize again and hurriedly bring her hands back down to her sides. They were near the same height though she was shorter by an inch or so, pale skin allowed him to just barely see the outline of her skinny face, small nose, tall forehead and thin lips. With an air of control Mycroft smiled-though she doubtlessly couldn't see it properly, "This is unfortunate," he muttered mostly to himself. The woman raised an eyebrow, "That's an understatement."  
"No need to worry, I happen to be equipped for these kinds of emergencies."  
"That sounds very…suggestive," she replied humorously, face coloring visibly.  
Grinning sincerely, Mycroft attempted to shuffle around her. Several loud thumps echoed through small space as the two knocked elbows against the wall and tripped over each other's feet. He caught a whiff of dandruff shampoo and melon from her hair which he found oddly pleasant. In the end the woman stood behind him pressed against the wall, head ducked to avoid the bar and the "mink" coat. Mycroft knelt down on one knee before the keyhole and retrieved from his innermost pocket a lock picking set. Sherlock wasn't the only one with a criminally inclined skillset though Mycroft was _far_ out of practice. Working at the lock he attempted to ignore the press of the stranger's bony knees against his back and the sound of her steady breathing in an attempt to remain calm. He could tell she was trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible and was grateful for it at the very least. Mycroft felt ungainly and _too large_ in such tight quarters, much more so with a stranger standing so frightfully close.

For a while the only sound that could be heard was the steady click of metal tools maneuvering through the lock, but then (most annoyingly) the woman decided to speak.  
"My uh… my name's Isabelle."  
"Mycroft Holmes," he replied distractedly, waving a long fingered hand vaguely at her.  
"Holmes, you must be related to our illustrious hosts," she muttered. Mycroft did nothing but nod. "I uh, I take it you came here to escape R-Rita?" she stuttered, and judging by the sharp intake of breath she hated that fact. Mycroft hummed, "Miss Mason, to be blunt. Is not my type," he quirked the corners of his mouth into a false smile. Isabelle crossed her arms over the lower part of her ribcage; he could hear the soft movement of fabric.  
"She's insufferable you mean?"  
"Precisely," despite his best efforts the smile remained and became real. There was something oddly reassuring about the push of her knees all of a sudden.  
"I trying really hard to be nice to her 'cause she works with my boss sometimes, but it's hard," Isabelle persisted, taking his reply as an opening to continue talking, "and we spent the whole time chasing after you," she nudged him with her foot. Mycroft stiffened, grip tightening upon his tools.  
"God, sorry!"  
Exhaling slowly Mycroft managed, "Perfectly alright."

"…I'm such an idiot."

From what he could tell? Yes, she was. Still Mycroft felt something akin to disgust at her self recrimination mucking up his throat. "I shouldn't have come here, I knew I couldn't…" her mouth closed and she pursed her lips. Mycroft the clear progress he was making to (in a show of awkwardness beyond his usual character) stood up and turned to face her- battling the urge to hold in his breath (and subsequently, his stomach) when he realized for what felt like the fiftieth time just how _close_ they were. Were he to bend forwards by a short margin he ran the risk of poking her with his long proboscis.  
Isabelle's eyes were light brown…hazel. And under some scrutiny she had large collection of freckles across her small nose and cheeks, a few on her neck and likely dotting her shoulders- though they were covered by a light blue cardigan.  
"You, Miss-" he cut himself off at the realization that he didn't know her last name, "Isabelle," he decided, "I have only known you for a short time but from what I can tell you are hardly as you described."  
She wrinkled her nose, "And y-you know everything?" she said sharply. Mycroft, staring her in the eyes to appear serious and honest (a useful technique), "Yes," he flashed a toothy grin, "I do."  
Isabelle laughed at this, "Well, you're _humble,_ " she brushed his wrists with her pale fingertips almost unconsciously. "Of course," he replied smoothly, his skin tingling unpleasantly (though not overly so) where she'd touched him.

"You don't know my last name." she challenged.  
"I will."  
"And then what? Do you know where I come from? My family?"  
"It will take little effort to learn those one must only look in the right places."  
"You know… you sound more frightening than you are."  
"Do I?"

Abruptly Mycroft spun around on his heel and returned to his kneeling position, hands finding the metal tools dangling from the keyhole. It took some finagling but he finally managed to open the door, having to work hard not to fall over with it as it swung wide. With an air of dignity he rose to his feet and stepped free of the small space, hiding his relief. Gesturing with one hand he allowed Isabelle room to escape, "M'lady?" he demurred.  
"Mr. Holmes," she nodded in the same tone, very regal. Free of the closet Isabelle sucked in one long breath and exhaled. Mycroft deemed it over dramatic though he was tempted to do the same thing. The young woman ran a hand across her reddish-brown hair. Mycroft decided her very plain in appearance, sort of gawky and otherwise completely unremarkable. Still he couldn't stop looking at her, her oddly pleasing appearance striking something inside of him. She seemed to notice something about him too if the direction of her gaze was anything to go by. How unwittingly flattering.  
Clearing her throat Isabelle put out a hand, "Mr. Holmes, it's uh, it's been a pleasure being stuck in that closet with you," she chuckled, an odd sound he belatedly thought. Mycroft accepted her hands, a little sweaty (like his own in all likeliness) but comfortable all the same, "I wouldn't wish to be trapped with anyone else."

" _Mycie, where are you?! Iz?"_

Both stiffened, grips visibly tightening on the other's hand as dread overtook them. "My Dear, I don't suppose you would like to jump out a window with me?"  
"Considering we're such good friends?" Isabelle teased, "Yes please!"  
Hand in hand they travelled through the remaining stretch of hallway and rushed into his parent's room where he knew there was a large window next to a tree. Mycroft peaked out the window. Hm. Perhaps Isabelle would be willing to go first and catch him at the bottom...?

* * *

 **There's nothing remarkable about this but I had a lot more fun writing it, I fell back into my groove ("AUG, you threw of my GROOVE!") The only problem is that I kept trying to write it from Isabelle's POV, instead I had to add a line or two that might be considered out of character for her so early on in their "relationship" you know?**

 **Thank you again to Red for your review(s)! I encourage others (what few others there are) to say hello too! Just a reminder I am totally open to chapter suggestions, fandoms to stick them into and the like XD (I have a list of ideas so I'm not short don't worry!) Also: I have a cold, which means I doubt my mental faculties. Any mistakes? Please point them out! ;)**


	17. Reaping Day

**Reaping Day (Hunger Games*. Only mentioned violence and death is discussed) -**

I stood in the crowd like a scarecrow gussied up for the crows. All around me people stood in a similarly stiff manner, fear expressed in every line on their faces. Up ahead I could see Maria and Gloria, holding hands and whispering to each other. No mind was payed towards me, which in my opinion was for the better. A stranger bumped into me, a mother and her child trying to find where to stand. Something in my stomach lurched and for the second time that day I nearly threw up. What was going to happen? Who would be chosen? What would become of them?  
The drone of the town's mayor Christopher Holmes blared, a little too loud, a little too muffled for his voice to be made out properly. Something inside of me thought he might prefer it that way; it was a well-known fact that the Holmes' despised the Hunger Games. A blue skinned woman followed wearing a garish dress covered in flowery designs; her hair pinned up and painted a lighter shade of the same color. I might have found it amusing if her presence didn't scare me so much! Eonie Trill smiled with all of her teeth which off in the distance made a small child burst into tears.

"Hello and welcome to the Hunger Games. Reaping Day, number forty six everyone, _exciting_!"

Yeah, Eonie wasn't exactly by the book when it came to her introductions. I hugged myself, feeling suddenly cold. The sky was overcast and cloudy like it was debating whether to rain or not. A wind picked up, lifting my skirt over my knees until I sought to push it down. There was very little chance of my getting picked, I was fifteen and our mum and dad had left us enough money for us to keep ourselves fed when they passed. That is not to mention the work I'd been putting into the market. We were skinny and hungry all the time, but not malnourished. Mind you, you couldn't tell that from looking at me. I was a sickly pale and angular like a skeleton. My hair had been pulled tight and braided, grown out to reach a little past my rear and I was dressed in an ugly green dress that was too short and too wide for me.  
"Let's call our first contestant hm?" Eonie pulled me from my thoughts with a high pitched giggle. I was fascinated by the Capitol's accents, they were so _weird!_ "And the girls first I should think," Miss Trill continued fluttering one hand over a round glass bowl. I held my breath, heart hammering in my chest. A piece of paper pinched between Eonie's long red fingernails and she brought it up, shooting another toothy grin our direction before she flipped the paper open.

 _"Isabelle Long!"_

Time slowed down just for me. Before I even knew it I was walking. All surrounding faces turning to look at me, either relief or horror crossing their otherwise bland features. I didn't feel like crying which was good, the idea felt so foreign and uncomfortable me. I passed Maria and Gloria who reached out to touch my arm, I would be seeing them soon and then… then I would never see them again. What chance did I have? None! I was a weedy, clumsy, gawky girl with no skills whatsoever! My hands clenched into fists at my sides without my permission as I ascended the stairs and found my place on the stage. "Right, now… oh, yes. Do we have any volunteers?" Eonie chirruped. Hard silence followed, no Careers raring to take my place or family members willing to save me. I approved of the latter; my sisters shouldn't sacrifice themselves for me! Although, if I thought about it long enough I might have come to the conclusion that I would sacrifice myself for them. I could see Maria looking teary eyed up at me and waving a little. I waved back, flashing my most confident smile -which wasn't in the least bit confident actually.  
"Ok, moving on to the boys! I'm sure you're all raring to find out who it is," the Capitol woman continued, walking on too-high-heels to reach the other glass bowl, "Tension mounts does it not?"  
I wanted to smack her upside the head right then. I didn't.

 _"Sherlock Holmes!"_

A collective gasp ripped from the throats of everyone, even me. A Holmes had been picked?! I stared with wide eyes as a boy no older than I with dark curly hair and pale skin started walking with a defiant air towards the stage. The Holmes family was by far the richest in the entire sector. Christopher Holmes was the mayor and thus had a steady job with no risk behind it unless the Capitol decided it didn't like him. Sherlock turned colorful eyes on me and smirked. The two of us had met only once, the interaction was short and stilted including only a "Hi" from me and a grunt on his end. Supposedly there were two sons, though I'd never seen the second. From what little I'd heard the older brother rarely ever left the house- or at the very least, their property. Sherlock climbed all the way onto the stage and spun around on shined black shoes, his hands thrust into his pockets as though the amount of caring he gave was none. I couldn't help but admire that.  
"Excellent!" Eonie Trill clapped her hands together in front of her, "And for Mister Sherlock Holmes do we have any volunteers?"  
I rolled my eyes at that, who would be so stupid as to-

"I volunteer as tribute."

Yet another collective gasp that must have sucked in a few innocent midges followed. I looked down to where volunteer stood, one hand barely raised. It was a boy, seventeen or so, tall and pale. He was invited to the stage and he began walking though he seemed to find pleasure in taking his sweet time.  
"Mycroft," I heard Sherlock whisper to himself, something like fear passing his features. A Peacekeeper shoved the younger boy forward to get him back down into the crowd. My gaze remained fixed upon the stranger. He wasn't wildly thin which in contrast to everyone else made him look quite high on the hog. His eyes a stormy grey that trailed lazily over me and then Miss Trill who seemed slightly freaked out by his stare.  
"Hello-o!" she brought herself out of it to sort of shake the new boy's hand, "That was very valiant of you, what's your name?"  
Smoothly he replied, "Mycroft Holmes."  
"And that was your brother you just replaced?"  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her as though she was a small child in comparison, "Of course. Who else would he be?"  
Much like the younger I admired Mycroft's ability to be calm in such a situation. I was trembling. My knees had probably locked up and I was going to faint in front of thousands of people- and of course the cameras.  
The tall teenager went back to stand at a great distance beside me, his pasture ramrod straight and his hands folded in front of him. His face was stony and blank. Eonie uttered a few pleasantries and then we were unceremoniously ushered into the building behind us to meet our families and generally say goodbye. I was able to catch one last glance of Mycroft Holmes; for only a moment he looked like a frightened teenager.

We met our families; I pulled both my siblings into a tight hug and told them I would do my best to come back. I ignored Gloria's scoff and eye roll and the thinning of Maria's mouth as they both thought the same thing, _"she doesn't stand a chance!"  
_ After that we were taken to a train that would take us to the Capitol, there they would try to make me pretty (good luck there) and then we would train. Mycroft had gone back to looking cool, calm, and collected. I didn't believe it for a second! Eonie Trill twittered over us as we ate, Mycroft with the utmost of manners. I tried to follow his example though I was starving and everything looked quite delicious. Madelyn Ross (our mentor) of whom we'd been introduced to earlier in the ceremony had a look that suggested pity, though she smiled softly. I quite liked her; she didn't allow the horrors of her past stop her from doing what she wanted.

Night came to be and I was in "my" bed after a shower and having been given a nightgown. I stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. My mouth tasted like dirt no matter how hard I brushed my teeth and it had nothing to do with what I'd eaten. Silently I climbed free of the covers and left the room, padding through the tight halls of the train on bare feet. It was dark but when I reached a room with a large sofa and a television I saw light. I saw light _and_ Mycroft Holmes. He was drinking from a clear glass; I didn't dare ask what was in it.  
"Sleep eludes you too I see," he muttered without looking at me. I stopped, "I uh…yeah," I shrugged. What else could I say? "I'm filled with inner turmoil and the idea of sleeping made me ill?" It didn't seem appropriate really. Without much thought I circled the piece of furniture and fell onto it next to what was supposed to be my enemy. I was meant to kill him… could I? Could I kill _anyone?!  
_ Drawing my knees up to my chest I spoke mostly to the coffee table, "That was… that was a brave thing you did. Sacrificing yourself for your brother I mean."  
Mycroft scoffed, "I had other motives."  
I turned to stare at him, "Seriously?" I yelped too loudly and felt fear of being caught rush through to my fingertips, "Wha-what are they?"  
"My motives?" he sniffed, "If I succeed I shall become a mentor and be allowed travel to the Capitol."

Fingernails dug into the flesh of my calf as I found myself bristling at him. What, so he wanted to mingle with those monsters?! Mycroft turned grey eyes on me that spoke of his own superiority, "Don't be stupid. I have no desire to become one of those vapid creatures," his voice took up a droning quality suggesting boredom. I just thought he was tired, maybe a little lost like I was. I struggled to understand his reasoning though, "I don't…"  
"I, Miss Long, have been studying the politics of the Capitol and its people. I was hoping I might make myself a behind the scenes asset to their government and fight for-" he stopped himself, pressing the glass against his forehead and exhaling slowly, "Ridiculous. What are the odds of that happening?"  
I couldn't. Oh God, I couldn't kill him!  
"You wanted to make things better," I supplied in a soft tone, "it's nice that you're trying. So even if it wasn't to save your brother, it's still brave," I reached out to touch his arm but he managed to further the distance between us. "I'm not seeking your approval," Mycroft practically hissed, "Yes, I did this for my brother and yes I did it for a chance at helping people but that hardly makes my actions brave when in reality I am so… _afraid,"_ he wrinkled his overlarge nose at the word as though it smelled fowl to him. Following this, his face fell more into ambiguity in an attempt to hide his feelings. The thing was all it took was a twitch of his lip or flicker of a furrowed brow for me to understand everything that passed through his mind – and it did help that he'd expressed so much with only one sentence. "You think you're going to die?" I spoke in barely a whisper now, my throat constricted.

"Of course I'm going to die."

My heart felt like it might explode, "You don't know that," I shot back, "If anyone's going to die it's me!" hot tears finally formed and burned behind my eyes, "I'm useless!"  
Mycroft frowned, "You must know how to run."  
I shook my head vehemently, "Oh yeah, but I can't kill anyone. I can't even hunt! Whenever the Hunger Games comes 'round I never actually watch it b-because I can't bear watching people die… I'm not cut out for this Mycroft," I shoved my face against my bare arms sobbed pathetically. Suddenly I felt a hand upon my shoulder awkwardly rubbing up and down in a soothing gesture, "I have spent the majority of my life in an armchair and you don't see me crying," he joked in a forcedly light tone. I couldn't help it I hiccupped my way into laughter, tears still spilling down my cheeks all the same. "That's what training's for," I told him. Mycroft tutted at the sight of my tear stained face and –setting aside his drink- stood up to retrieve a handkerchief or a napkin for me. The item was dropped onto my knee with little care then Mycroft was back sitting beside me, closer than before. I wondered if that was on purpose.  
"The training they offer won't be enough for me," he huffed, "I have no stamina as my brother kindly pointed out, among other things."  
"You act like you're an old man," I replied wiping at my eyes roughly. Mycroft ran a pale hand down his sleeve as though to smooth invisible wrinkles in the fabric, not saying anything. I wasn't sure where to go from there though I dearly wanted to say something reassuring. In a flash of inspiration I nudged his shoulder (though that clearly annoyed him) and said, "We could hold hands."  
He looked at me as though I was crazy. "When it starts," I explained, "and we have to run. We could hold hands. If I have to drag you, I will," I tilted my head and smiled. "That…is a stupid plan," Mycroft replied, brow furrowed. I could just see the corners of his mouth twitch to hide a smile which reassured me. I shrugged, "Have any better ideas?"

He didn't.

Standing up I brushed my hands down my nightgown, the handkerchief pinched beneath my thumb. "We're probably going to fail horribly but it's worse than not trying. Probably," I cleared my throat. Mycroft crossed one leg over the other to show that he wasn't going to stand up with me, "You seem strangely sure of yourself Miss Long. How do you know that I won't stab you in the back?" he looked genuinely curious.  
In truth I didn't, but I still trusted him. I was willing to trust anyone if it meant not being alone in what was to come. I looked down at him fondly which only sent him deeper into his puzzlement, "I could ask the same of you. And please, it's Isabelle."  
On my return to my room I heard the low tone of Mycroft's voice calling out to me, "Goodnight Isabelle."  
"'Night Mycroft,"

I needed my rest, tomorrow was a big day.

* * *

 ***Much like Harry Potter I haven't read or watched The Hunger Games in a long time so I apologize for any canonical mistakes!  
I looked up districts they might be in but in the end decided to leave it to your imagination. *Shrug* I hope nothing actually happened in the forty-sixth Hunger Games. I didn't check. Lol**

 **I attempted First Person… I'm not very good at it. But I like to mix it up, walk on the wild side** ** _Hatcha!_** **…I'm sorry.  
A thousand thank you's to Red for leaving another review! : I know what you mean. But writing one shots and such does help you get to know the character so you can write them better the ****_next time_** **. I might be spouting bull-patooty though. Lol**

 **New chapter should be up soon! (That might also be hogwash. That's right hogwash!)**


	18. Sick, ill, and you get the idea

**Sick, ill, and you get the idea… (Regular ALWTH) –**

"I told you this would happen."

Mycroft Holmes, with head lolled back against his chair, tissues jammed up his nose and eyes half lidded in a fight against sleep, turned his head and scowled as best he could, "Do kindly _shut up_ My Dear."  
Isabelle, in a space across from him with her hands on her frankly enormous stomach, grinned. She'd safely recovered from her own cold and only suffered a few stray runny noses at present. Mycroft on the other hand appeared to be a sitting corpse he was so pale, sweat stood out on his skin and dark circles marred beneath his eyes after a headache and cough filled night. Isabelle tried very hard to hide the guilt she felt for giving this to her husband, especially regarding the circumstances in which he'd likely caught it- trying to comfort her.  
Mycroft removed the wad of tissues from his nose and set out to fold them as best he could then he plopped them into a bin which he'd retrieved earlier. This was followed by what felt like ten minutes of nose blowing. The true sign of how poorly he was, was the lack of layers he'd put on. As it was he only wore a button up shirt with cuffs unbuttoned and the obvious dark trousers- though he didn't wear a belt, his feet clad only in socks.

Isabelle had the delight of spectating her husband's attempts at changing his sitting position, all the energy clearly sapped from his body. "This is hard to watch," she informed him. Mycroft turned his head to look at her, "Shouldn't you be at work?" he managed to sound condescending even with a cold.  
She sighed unhappily, "That kind of flew out the window when I needed _your_ help getting out of bed this morning. Mrs. Ross understood."  
Mycroft hummed which sounded rather like a bee had gotten trapped in his nose, "I had intended to spend some time in the office until my senseless assistant stopped me," he complained. Isabelle's eyes widened, "You went in to work?!"  
He nodded, "Of course I did. England does not take sick days and-" he paused to cough up his lungs, "-neither should I."  
Isabelle decided she would need to thank Anthea for sending her husband home. Going into work in his state was just ridiculous!

A silence followed where they both stared at the wall, unable to do anything else. Then quite suddenly Mycroft brought his head up and said mostly to himself, "I have a few things I could accomplish in the office upstairs," he mused. Much to Isabelle's horror he made a move to stand up. "OR!" she yelped a little too loudly for her tastes though it accomplished the task of getting her husband's attention, "Or you could stay with me. We could have hot tea and watch episodes of Yes Minister on my new laptop," she smiled softly at him.  
Mycroft stared at her for a moment, slumping back into his part of the couch, "That sounds… pleasurable," he managed. "Great," Isabelle clapped her hands together, feeling quite proud of herself for having come up with the idea.

Nothing happened.

"One of us is going to have to get the DVD's, the laptop, and the tea," Isabelle muttered. Mycroft frowned at her, "I'm ill."  
"And I'm pregnant!" she shot back, rubbing at one tired eye with the heel of her hand. Neither made move to stand up. "What do you say to your retrieval of the tea, and my gathering of everything else? It would save you from my potential ailment if I forgo preparing your drink," Mycroft decided sensibly. She couldn't help but agree. As kind as it was for Mycroft to have offered comfort to her last time and risking his own sickness- Isabelle couldn't bear the idea of catching that cold again. Besides how horrible it had been, there was a risk to baby if she was weakened again. "That sounds fair enough," Isabelle replied putting a hand on the armrest beside her to help lever herself up, "Let's do this thing."  
"Indeed," Mycroft attempted to do the same.

Two minutes later the two could be found in the same place as before, fast asleep.

* * *

 **I thought this chapter felt a bit clunky, I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong Lol.  
** **As a suggestion: If you want a sequel to any of the chapters already written I might be willing to come up with one. ;)**

 **As always: Please review! I have suckers with tootsie roll inside and I'm willing to share!**


	19. Random Word Drabbles (2)

**Random Word mini fics 150 words or less (Part 2)-**

 **Grief:**

Mycroft felt her hand in his, fingers curling around his own and applying gentle pressure. "What are you thinking about?" Isabelle asked, her lips pressing shortly against his jaw. He hummed with pleasure, "Us."  
"Yeah?" she nudged Mycroft with her foot, "What about us?"  
He turned to face her; she was smiling, hazel eyes twinkling with poorly hidden mirth, "I am amazed we've lasted this long."  
"Oi!" Isabelle laughed, tugging at his tie, "I think we're a great couple. A happy couple. A _devoted_ couple!"  
"A weird couple that doesn't know how to communicate," Mycroft interrupted. Isabelle sighed, leaning back as he stroked her knuckles with his thumb, "We love each other though. That's what's important. Right?"

Mycroft stood before the grave he hadn't visited in nearly two years, placing a bouquet of flowers just in front of it. In a quiet voice he muttered, "Right."

 **Steal:**

"Oh wow. Oh wow! OH WOW!"

Mycroft who stood beside her shot her a glare, "I would appreciate it you didn't do that My Dear," he rumbled.  
"Sorry it's just… I'm in Buckingham Palace! I never thought I would step foot anywhere even _near_ Buckingham Palace!"  
Despite himself Mycroft grinned, "It is an honor," he replied. Isabelle took his hand and squeezed it, "It was totally worth nearly throwing up in a helicopter for this."  
The two strolled through the enormous, ornate rooms. Isabelle pointed to anything and everything in hopes of her husband explaining their origins. A few uptight looking people passed and nodded at Mycroft with respect. It was wonderful!  
The tour ended and Mycroft released her hand, "Well, that wasn't as embarrassing as I'd first imagined," he smirked.  
Isabelle looked thoughtful then grinned impishly, "It will be soon, I'm going back in there to steal an ashtray!"

 **Confess:**

"Myc?"

Mycroft looked up from a newspaper at his wife who shuffled over to him looking guilty. He frowned at her, "Yes?"  
Isabelle cleared her throat, "I uh, I might have… That is…"  
Mycroft stood up quickly, "What, what's happened?" he demanded. A few rambling words later Isabelle managed, "I accidently spilled grape juice on the library rug!"

"WHAT?!"

Isabelle watched her boyfriend run (actually run) out of the room and towards the kitchen to gather his cleaning supplies. Isabelle sniffed plainly before falling into a chair and picking up a fork to dig into her breakfast, "Felt good to get that off my chest."

 **Poem:**

"Roses are red, violets are blue… Sherlock killed your flowers, I ate the chocolates too. Happy Valentine's Day My Dear- sincerely Mycroft."

Isabelle turned to face her husband who smiled blandly back at her, "I think my skills are better served within government work rather than poetry," he commented. Isabelle could only grin, "You're ridiculous!"  
Mycroft frowned, "Am not," he objected petulantly. Isabelle approached her husband and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, "Yes you are. Adorable and ridiculous. Don't tell me you were serious with this poem."  
"Of course not," he sniffed disdainfully, "That doesn't mean I'm ridiculous as a whole," he gestured vaguely in the air to punctuate the point.  
"Well, I've got one for you. Roses are red, violets are blue- no one can love as much as I do," she leaned in to kiss- only for Mycroft to pull back.

"Did you steal that from somewhere?"

 **Rest:**

After four days of nonstop Government slog, Mycroft was ready to sleep. And sleep. And _sleep!_ Isabelle greeted him later informing him that she'd prepared dinner- only slightly burnt and only a little bit too salty. Mycroft helped Alistair with a Maths problem then went upstairs to change. Isabelle waited with a book in her hand, smiling at Mycroft when he entered the room. He climbed beneath the covers; she turned off the lights… Nothing. Isabelle frowned, "Can't sleep?"  
"Of course."  
She chose not to reply to his terse comment and instead said playfully, "Want me to read you a bedtime story?"  
"That used to be my job," he mumbled blandly, assuming he meant to Sherlock. She couldn't disagree that he would be better at it than she was "Yeah. Now it's mine."

She read until her throat was dry, only stopping when she heard the purr of Mycroft's snores.

* * *

 **Hit a bit of a slump, started three different chapters for this thing but couldn't finish any of them (why cruel world?!) Decided to write some more (sappy) drabblish things in hopes of re-sparking my creativity ;)  
(It might be a wait before the next one, I'm going to attempt to finish another chapter of "Letters" before I do this otherwise I'll never get it done!... We'll see Lol)**

 **Thank you Red for your reviews! Also thank you for all my new follower and favorite-r.**


	20. Hasty Courting

**Hasty Courting-**

He sat across from her, clad in coal black suit with a red tie and a red handkerchief folded in the pocket. His eyes-grey- stared blankly at her, hands folded neatly on the tabletop. Isabelle smiled, fingering the card in her hand ready to fill it out.

"So, d-do you have any hobbies?"

The man- Mycroft- pursed his lips in consideration. She wouldn't have thought it to be a hard question. "I read on occasion," he said, clearly pleased with his response. "Oh yeah? What genre?" Isabelle continued. Reading, she liked reading, she could handle talking to this guy _about_ reading. "History, historical fiction on occasion, newspapers though I doubt those count," he hummed. Right. That wasn't going to work. Isabelle flashed a smooth smile, wondering when the bell would ding and she would be shuffled off to the next- more desirable candidate. Mycroft had begun writing something onto his card in elegant script Isabelle couldn't read upside down, it spurred her to put down a few facts then she looked up, "Do you have any pets?"  
"No."  
Well, that was an alright answer. Isabelle would have immediately crossed him off if he had a dog, horrible creatures… She sought to find an answer out of this stranger that she could actually relate to so continued, very aware that he wasn't asking her anything or even showing interested beyond answering her own crude questioning, "Favorite color, and uh… what do you do for a living?"  
The man across from her set about refolding his napkin, "I hold a minor governmental position," he replied without looking up, "And I'm _fond_ of emerald green. Though I find favorite colors a ridiculous question, there is little to no information that one really gather out of asking it."  
Blushing, Isabelle found a hand taking a few pieces of stale popcorn out of a bowl in the middle of the table. It was better than arguing with him. Mycroft finished his napkin folding and set it aside to yet again twining his fingers together in front of him, clearly awaiting more from her. Ok, what does one ask on dates? "What uh… what do you do?"  
"I told you," he frowned. Isabelle quickly replied, "No, I mean, in your government job, what do you do?"  
He tilted his head a little bit. More thinking. "Filing, date entry, meetings with important officials. I take the notes," he looked amused. Isabelle smiled softly, "That's nice."  
He raised an eyebrow, indicating he didn't approve of her condescension- Isabelle hadn't intended it to sound that way.

"Do you, uh, d'you have a question for me?" Isabelle asked quickly, noting the wrinkling of his nose as she consumed her popcorn. He looked so uptight it was hard for her to feel bothered by that.  
It was a stupid idea, speed dating. One of her sister's ideas intended more as a joke but was taken seriously. After Roger Ellingham she needed… she needed something. Some _one_. Even if they would drop her like the proverbial sack of potatoes and hurt her all over again. Her heart felt twisted and uncomfortable along with the rest of her, sitting across from someone so patently _wrong_ for her. "Do you believe that your sisters are treating you poorly?" he inquired, flashing a tight little smile that didn't extend to his eyes. Isabelle's posture stiffened, "What?"  
Mycroft looked at her as though she was stupid, "Do you believe that your siblings mistreat you? I would believe they do, your demeanor and your clothing selections all tell me so. But I am curious to know how you feel on the matter."  
Isabelle wasn't entirely sure how to reply to this so she managed a defensive, "Wha-I-I dunno. No!" to which Mycroft readily corrected, "Don't know. Dunno has never been a word."

The bell rang.

Mycroft stood up and left without a second glance in her direction. Isabelle felt tears prickle her eyes, her face burning. She'd felt like a child! Her hands clenched into fists, just as a man moved in across from her and smiled, "Hi! I'm Tobias, but people call me Tobey!" and she was thrust into a half-cheery conversation with him. Still Mycroft remained in the back of her mind like a song she couldn't quite remember the lyrics to.  
By the end of the ordeal she'd decided that speed dating was not her thing and she probably should've laughed the suggestion off when it'd been given. She handed in her card and awaited her "perfect match" (as if that really existed). She was standing close to the front desk when she heard agitated voices, unable to help herself she overheard them talk. "We've got a bit of a problem," the first, a man said with a sigh. The second was a woman who'd introduced herself as Fellula (of all things) at the beginning of the ordeal, "Oh yeah, what's that?"  
"One of the girls' run off," explained the man, "we managed to properly match everyone 'cept that guy in the suit over there," he pointed. Isabelle allowed a glance to Mycroft Holmes standing simply in a corner watching the crowd with disinterest. Well, that was no surprise.  
"Even if she'd have stayed they wouldn't make a good match. You should see some of the answers he put on his questionnaire, he's a certifiable nutter!"  
Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat. That wasn't fair! "D'you think he'll sue?" Fellula asked worriedly.

Isabelle had heard enough, she walked away from them in search of a safe place to hide when she was approached readily by Tobey waving his little card, "We match!" he grinned. Isabelle smiled in return. Tobias Meckler was her perfect man apparently. She liked him well enough, friendly, smiley, he owned three cats (no dogs) and worked at an airport. All around them people were pairing up. Isabelle turned her attention away from Tobey for a moment to look at the stranger. From what she saw he was still uninterested in everything around him, probably there to while away the hours rather than looking for an honest coupling. She didn't have to feel guilty. Isabelle was about to offer a date to Tobey when she saw a flash of something on Mycroft's face: eagerness. He looked almost like a child waiting for a present before it sank back into blankness and ambiguity. Mycroft Holmes was waiting to see who matched up with him, when in reality _no one_ did!  
Decisively Isabelle turned back to Tobey and smiled as brightly as she could, "Mr. M-Meckler I would really like a…date," she cleared her throat, wishing that she could be more succinct when she talked, "I would like to go out with you some other time, uh," Isabelle rushed to a table, picked up a stubby pencil and wrote down her phone number. She put out the card; out of the corner of her eye she could see Fellula going to tell Mycroft that he was meant to be a bachelor a little longer. "Call me, yeah?" Tobey blinked, "Uh, yeah. Sure?"  
"Great!" she grinned then she swiftly walked away, leaving the poor man on his own to stare after her. He was better off anyways, who would really want to be with her? But, she decided in the case of Mycroft, having Isabelle Long was better than nothing. Hm, that was probably the best way to describe her: Better than nothing.

She approached Mycroft waving her card and said, "We match!" in the same overjoyed voice Tobey had used.

Fellula having seen her, looked confused, but backed off. Mycroft turned to face Isabelle and a genuine smile graced his lips, "So we do," he commented. Isabelle thought she could see something akin to understanding in his eyes, he _knew_ she was lying. He was smart, she knew that already. "So would you like to talk?" she continued with the charade for the sake of appearances. The man nodded, gesturing to a pair of chairs with one elegant hand. The two sat down. Isabelle was certain things weren't going to work out between them, but it felt good to see the pleasure on his face.

"So... do you have a favorite mythical creature?"

* * *

 **This worked out better in my head…hm. *shrug*  
Why is Mycroft speed dating? Uh… He's helping Sherlock with a case? Extreme boredom? He's trying to prove something? I really don't know, just go with it. Lol  
** **I really want to write something longer. Ug, where is inspiration when you need it? I bet its hiding, I'll try luring it out with biscuits...**

 **Red: I have a lot of fun writing the short ones (yup, that sounds weird) it's good to know at least you won't mind if I keep peppering those suckers in. X)**


	21. The Spider

**The Spider-**

Isabelle sat down on the worn down park bench and quietly pulled off the cellophane from her sandwich, her bag slumped in the grass at her feet. Isabelle kept a wary eye upon Lillian and Alistair, the former running wildly about trying every piece of playground equipment. Alistair busied himself watching his little sister from his perch, keeping a hand on one of the brightly colored bars to prevent falling. She smiled fondly at them before biting into her sandwich. It was incredibly simple, luncheon meet with a dollop of mayonnaise. Isabelle had no time to actually cook for herself much less deal with the impending house fire. Mycroft would have been appalled. That was the benefit of his long trips to who-knows-where she supposed, there remained no risk of chastising glares or long winded lectures about creating nutritional meals. Ug. (Of course he would have cooked for her in the first place had he been home which might've subverted the lecture.)

Isabelle had made it halfway through her sandwich when she felt a presence move in beside her. A short figure lounging with one leg crossed over his thigh at the ankle. There was something about the stranger that sent involuntary chills raging down her spine and her fingers curled around the slightly soggy bread in her hands.

"Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet-"

Isabelle gasped as soon as she recognized the voice, her hazel eyes traveling the short gap between them and meeting a pair of soulless brown eyes. Daniel _Pierce_ her mind dutifully supplied before she had enough time to properly think. Of course his name wasn't Daniel Pierce, but that was how she would always remember him. He wore skinny jeans and a pale white shirt. She could see expensive Italian shoes over pink socks with kittens on them barely visible on his raised ankle.

"-eating her curds and whey."

His voice lilted soft and irish and so...promising. Isabelle attempted to right her attention to her children, though she couldn't help but watch him from the corner of her eye. Her heart hammered horribly in her chest as he pulled open a small brown paper bag and pulled free a red jelly baby which he pinched between his pointer and middle finger. His foot bopped once as he continued.

"Along came a spider who sat down beside her-"

He bit off the babies head then dropped the remaining body back into the bag. Isabelle swallowed, focusing on her stilted breathing. _You can do this, remain calm!_ "Go away," she hissed. The creature's head oscillated minutely as he ate the head off another baby. Isabelle noticed that he didn't chew, merely kept them stored in the recesses of his smiling mouth. She thought of Lillian in his hands and nearly choked. She couldn't handle it, she couldn't! "Please leave! Please..." she turned fully on him, her voice quivering despite her best efforts. Isabelle knew she was easy to frighten and easy to wrong foot- but Mycroft was always there with his constant (though sometimes overwhelming) protection, and her siblings were never around to make her feel awful. She had no reason most of the time to feel unsafe! But that man... that man was like a nightmare she couldn't quite remember but still scared her as though she was still experiencing it. Still seeing the horrors. A figure that appeared only once before but had ingrained himself upon her brain.

Jim Moriarty raised a hand and waggled his pale fingers at her in greeting, opening his mouth and then closing it on the hapless candy heads. Isabelle lost it and stood up in a rush, dropping her sandwich to the ground and walking purposefully (not withdrawing) to the playground to gather her children.

Moriarty hummed to himself, twisted the top of the brown paper bag easily between his fingers, watching as Isabelle Holmes ran away from the spider. He sniffed as though deeply moved then lyrically recited:

 _"Little Miss Muffet  
_ _Sat on a tuffet.  
_ _Eating her curds and whey;  
_ _Along came a spider  
_ _Who sat down beside her  
_ _And frightened Miss Muffet away."_

* * *

 **I apologize for the lateness of this new chapter. I've been both busy and devoid of any solid ideas. I think I have two other chapters that are only about half finished that I can't seem to finish. Bleh. I promise though that I'll have another one of these (hopefully longer) chapters out before the end of the new week *crosses fingers*  
If it helps, I've been working on the next chapter of Letters so that's also kept me from writing in here.**

 **Red: Yes I do realize, and truth be told yours are probably better than anything else I could come up with haha XP**


	22. Dragons and She (Part 1)

**Dragons and She (Part 1)-**

Excerpt from the introduction in -Dragons and You: A Guide by Suez Johnson-

" ** _Dragons_** _Reptillius Draconicus._

 _Types include: Common Red, Swamp Green, Vermillion Sun, etc (See pg. 26 for more extensive list)_

 _"Things you need to know about Dragons that are true of every type: All Dragons collect treasure like magpies, keeping hordes deep within their caves. All Dragons steal princesses for ransom, status, and to relieve boredom. All Dragons eat humans that enter their caves unless carried there by the creature itself. All Dragons can fly, if one loses that ability they will inevitably die._

 _(...) A warning to all that see one flying overhead, run indoors and remain out of sight. If you see a Dragon eating your livestock do not try to stop it. Any actions taken will inevitably end in your own demise. You've been warned."_

Isabelle was flying. Literally. It wasn't an entirely horrible experience save the mild airsickness and debilitating _terror._ All around her clouds passed by, the wind making it hard to hear anything except her own heartbeat. Beneath her she could make out houses peppered about the field, sheep desperately rushing away from the large shadow that passed over them, and people doing the same. No one could see her within the enormous clawed hand of the beast, and even if she dared to call out her voice would be lost. What could they do anyhow? Rage and rail at the injustice of it certainly, but nothing more than that.  
The peasant girl held as tight as she could, attempting to tuck in her legs which hung out on one side. One of her shoes nearly flew off but she managed to save it in one desperate grab. What did it matter? She would soon be dead anyways.

It seemed like hours (but likely wasn't) before the great creature came to a stop at mountain's edge, tucking legs inward so that Isabelle was uncomfortably pressed against the creature's scaly chest, wings folding in for a delicate swoop. Isabelle nearly cried out in terror as the floor came within inches of her face then she was lifted upwards as the Dragon landed on only three of his sinewy legs. It twisted its wrist so that Isabelle was upright then let her fall to the stone floor where she only barely managed to stay upright. The young woman dared to look up at it. Her mouth nearly fell open. While being within the creatures grasp had been scary standing in full sight of it was _far_ worse! It stood to be about the size of a tree. It had scales dark as night, shining blue beneath the few rays of sun coming from the cave entrance. The beast had a long face with several horns coming from his jawline, and off of his forehead. She couldn't help but note the muscles showing through its neck and legs, though it was otherwise a thin beast with ribs showing off on its scaly sides. The creature looked down at her with startlingly beautiful eyes as he lowered down to her level. Isabelle for her part stepped back until her body pressed against one of the many cavern walls. _This is it_ her mind screamed and hot tears burned the back of her eyes though oddly enough she refused to release them. She could feel his hot breath on her, his mouth opening to reveal what seemed like hundreds of sharp needlelike teeth.

"Are you a princess?"

Isabelle hadn't known Dragons could talk! It took far too long for her mind to restart and for her to be able to reply, "Wha-I-"  
"If you are indeed a Princess of any kind I will of course not eat you," his tail curled around one of his back legs, "Though should the mood arise I might do that anyways," he smiled cruelly. Isabelle wasn't entirely sure what was happening! The prospect of not being eaten though allowed her to stammer out, "Yes I'm uh- I'm a Princess. Princess Isabelle o-of Long...shadow," she cleared her throat. She'd never been a good liar, truly atrocious. And yet for some reason or another the great beast nodded, "Good it saves me the trouble," his voice was deep, rumbling, and calm like a wildcat's purr. She wondered if perhaps the creature wasn't very intelligent _or_ that it just didn't comprehend human mannerisms well enough to know that she'd just horribly lied. Whatever the reason she wasn't going to knock it and only nodded, "I-I'm glad." The creature snorted, sending off a puff of smoke.

For what felt like an eternity Isabelle could only find mind to stand and stare at the Dragon that stared right back. She noticed a few scales near his right shoulder that were white and she wondered why, he had a scar near his jaw and a chink in one of his horns as though he'd been attacked. Perhaps he had been. A muscle in the Dragon's jaw twitched as he finished his long bout of staring. His body shifted as he made move to turn around.  
"Wait!" Isabelle threw out a hand as soon as she realized he intended to leave her, "What do you plan to do to me? Do- do you have a name?" she desperately cried. She was ignored. Sherlock's wings unfurled and he launched himself out of the cave in a beautiful display, leaving Isabelle alone. She stumbled forwards then slumped onto the dirty floor, wiping at her stinging eyes with the back of her hand. Isabelle Long had just been mistaken for a Princess, stolen by a Dragon, and then completely abandoned by said Dragon. Overall it was the second worst day of her life!

It took about an hour for Isabelle to overcome her fear and grief, realize the Dragon would not return to answer her questions any time soon, and thus sought to explore her surroundings. She walked cautiously towards the opening of the cage where she'd been carried in, stopping at the edge. She immediately stepped back at the realization that, were she to step any further, she would plunge to her death. Though it wasn't high enough to thin the air she could see the tops of the trees down below and no detail beyond that. There were no outcroppings of stone for her to use as hand or footholds, meaning she wouldn't be able to climb her way down the mountain. A cool breeze blew the few strands of hair around her face back, and she breathed in deeply. "I'll be ok," she mumbled to herself, "I just…I just need to find a way out," her hands clenched into fists at her side, "I'll be ok." Perhaps if she said it enough it might become true.  
Isabelle turned towards the caverns and began was careful to remain quiet as she traversed the many empty passages, the only things worthy of her attention being the ugly plants growing out of the walls, the types of plants that didn't need sunlight and feasted off the little moisture collecting in the cracked stone. Her foot caught on a rare outcropping of craggy rock, causing her to stumble to the left towards an alternate path which was oddly lit up. Overwhelming curiosity urged her to follow the glow. She came to a stop in the entrance to the giant room. It smelled of chemicals and the rare spice like ginger or cinnamon. The walls were covered in torn maps tacked on with nails bent and broken, likely pounded in with excessive force. Scattered around the room there were books of all sizes and ages. Isabelle plucked one from a pile and found it to be written in some foreign language, she had no idea which one. Did the Dragon actually read them?  
Heavy wooden tables scorched around the edges were dispersed about the area and laden with all manner of test tubes and the like filled with chemicals of varying shades of green, brown, and red.- which was clearly the cause of the smell. She made her way to the middle where upon one of the tables she found a human skull, and her blood ran cold. "Oh God," she managed to exhale. It was well preserved, sitting sedately, smiling its toothy smile. Isabelle had never been used to death and having it so close before her was enough to send her into hysterics. It didn't happen though because the feeling of hot breath on her back turned her attention elsewhere.

Isabelle turned around slowly to find her captor, head lowered so that he was level with her, smoke rising steadily from his narrow nostrils. How had he approached without her hearing him?! He smiled (she hadn't known Dragons could smile!) and then spoke, "Most of my kind horde gold. Treasures that they've stolen from kings," he seemed to preen beneath her frightened gaze, "I horde knowledge."  
Isabelle couldn't help but notice the air of superiority that emanated off the great creature and she smiled faintly. The Dragon's right wing twitched as he lifted his head, turning towards one of the maps. "Humans don't know what to do with proper information," he hummed, the sound nearly vibrating the whole room. Isabelle hugged her arms, "I don't have any knowledge of my own, so I suppose you right," she shrugged her narrow shoulders. He nodded in understanding, "Princesses are stupid. It is a well-known fact."  
 _But I'm not a Princess_ her mind so readily supplied. Isabelle decided to change the subject, "Do you have a name?" The Beast lowered his whole body towards the ground, tail curling around his legs. "My name is unpronounceable in your language," he informed her, "Though I assumed my own human name as my brother has."  
 _Brother?  
_ "And what is it?" Isabelle waved him on after a long bout of silence. The Dragon seemed to enjoy watching her like she was his own personal pet rather than something he might properly converse with. He sniffed, "Sherlock."

Sherlock (she quite liked the name, odd as it was) stood once again at his full height, swinging his massive head upwards. Isabelle had to step back to avoid being smacked. The Dragons seemed to not understand just how big he was with the way he carried himself. Isabelle wanted to ask him about the skull, if it belonged to another "princess" he'd taken for reasons still unknown to her. She kept her mouth shut instead, unsure how far she could push him for information. There were more important things to bother him with. "Sher-Sherlock… A-am I meant to be doing something for you?"  
He blinked, "Are you?" he returned the question, "I rather assumed Princesses did nothing." He smirked again. Isabelle fought back a cry of frustration, "I was just wondering," she bowed her head a little in hopes of appearing submissive, something an old book said Dragons liked, "if I'm meant to help you with something or just sit around."  
"I believe your purpose is to attract knights for me to fight," Sherlock informed her carelessly, "though I must say that never appealed to me. I don't care what you do."

Wonderful.

Isabelle shook her head, "Then why am I here?" she sounded desperate even to her own ears. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth, "You are here to be a Princess, what about this concept do you fail to grasp?"  
It was with that she knew the conversation had ended. Isabelle swallowed thickly, "Never mind," she said darkly. She needed to escape.

Isabelle took her time to learn Sherlock's schedule. He spent most of his days outside the cave, leaving her to fend for herself. It took some cajoling for the great beast to bring her anything to eat, though she'd thankfully found a pool of clean (well, clean enough) water in one of the diverging cavern paths. She learned to avoid Sherlock if he remained in the cave for more than two days he would become irritable and be more likely to suggest eating her. It was those days that she did her best exploring, and subsequently it was on one of those days she found her means of escape.

A cave entrance (or in this case, exit) stood bright against the dank backdrop. Isabelle stared at it longingly and made move to rush to it when a low purring sound caught her ear. She stopped and turned, her breath catching in her throat. Another Dragon! Unlike Sherlock this Dragon had a large head with a bony, scaly, frill in place of horns. It had a rounded nose, larger nostrils, and teeth that (when the creature yawned) appeared to be meant more for chewing than immediate killing- sharp but more rounded and short. The scales were the color of copper, the few rays of sunlight glistening off the smooth surface. The beast was a few sizes bigger than Sherlock in height and width, excess flesh gathered around its stomach and jaw. Isabelle could tell it (he? Was this Sherlock's brother?) was sleeping, oak sized body curled up against the cool stone walls. His chest rose with each even breath, gentle snores oddly soothing to Isabelle's ears.  
As quiet as she could be Isabelle tip toed her way towards the entrance, barely breathing for fear she might wake it. A few times she felt forced to freeze in her place when the beast stirred, but he didn't seem to wake. Isabelle had almost made her way to freedom, she could smell the fresh air and feel the gentle breeze on her pale flesh, stirring the skirt of her ratty old dress. She lifted up a trembling hand as if to touch it when...

"Not one more step."

* * *

 ***Sighs dreamily* Ah Dragons, my first love *places hand over heart***

 **Uh... yeah, hi *waves*. I'm still here. *Ahem*... Yeah, I'm terrible for making you guys wait this long. I won't give you excuses, I'm just sorry. :p  
**

 **In response to Red's reviews: I don't think you're being impatient, I'm just unbelievable slow at writing right now. I'm doing well with this story so perhaps I've stepped out of my funk. -And: Ah yes, Sherlock would do something like that making Mycroft _just_ annoyed enough to take the bait.  
**

 **Mrs. Vendetta: Thank you for the suggestion, I might not stick exactly to your plan if that's ok but I'll see what I can do. ;)**

 **I didn't want to split this up but I was getting anxious to just put out _something_ so it's now a two parter bleh. I promise this time it won't take quite as long to put out the next one!**


	23. Jealous?

**Jealous? (Regular ALWTH world)-**

Isabelle sat with her hands folded in her lap, legs tucked carefully beneath the chair. She had her feet crossed over each other and her back straight as a rake. There was no good reason for her to be sitting as demurely as she was, her gaze fixed straight ahead and her hair resting a thick braid over her shoulder. Well, there wasn't a _good_ reason at any rate. The truth? Sitting outside Mycroft's office with "Anthea" nearby made her... uncomfortable.

Fighting the urge to bite her lip Isabelle considered the reason for it. Perhaps it was the other woman's pure confidence. The way she moved spoke of a distinct self-esteem and careful consideration. Unlike Isabelle who had to fight tooth and nail to find something she liked about herself (though she had improved greatly on that front) Anthea (we will stick to that name for simplicities sake) turned chocolate brown eyes on Isabelle and smiled, a simple quirk of her painted lips. "I'm afraid Mr. Holmes will be some time," she commented. Isabelle shrugged stiffly, "That's ok. I guess I have nothing better to do anyways," she smiled thinly. She really didn't like the aura that Anthea gave off either, though she couldn't bring herself to actually _dislike_ the other woman (or much of anyone besides Benitta Hollister). Isabelle turned her own hazel eyes on the door and sighed softly. Mycroft had promised a dinner date, of course work did tend to get in the way. Which was one way she envied someone like Anthea. Whereas Isabelle had no information on her husband's place in Government (besides incredible influence)- Anthea knew _everything_. Isabelle hated talking about politics outside of working for Madelyn Ross, but with Anthea he could easily discuss the goings on of the world.

Isabelle nearly jumped when a Anthea stood up abruptly and made her way across the small room on high heeled shoes, her dark, perfectly styled hair bouncing with each step until she was at Mycroft's door. She knocked once then entered, leaving Isabelle alone. She allowed herself to relax, releasing her hold on her hands and pulling her legs out from beneath her. Anthea, she decided, was everything Isabelle wasn't. Intelligent, confident, perceptive of Mycroft's every need, able to walk on high heeled shoes without falling over. The woman came by the house at least once a month to work with Mycroft at home, leaving Isabelle to be alone. The way the two moved and conversed was like watching a play; one had to sit back and admire. Mycroft was utterly at ease in her presence, speaking tersely and negatively whenever he felt like it because he didn't feel like he had to put on a show. Anthea remained overly professional the whole time, taking everything he said in stride. The insults, the pessimism, the inane desire he had to be in control of everything. Heck, he even gave her control of situations once in awhile! That was not to mention the sheer amount of time the two spent together. The only consolation Isabelle had on that front was that Anthea rarely spent time at the Diogenes unless she had to- claiming once that she found the atmosphere to be too grim and dead. Isabelle had only been there once, she couldn't find it in herself to agree. She enjoyed the steady silence.

Yes, it seemed Anthea and Mycroft were just about perfect for each other. And Isabelle was smart enough to see it. And yet… and yet she wasn't _jealous._ It struck her every time she watched the two. The lack of fear, anger, or resentment. Even, when on one occasion when Mycroft had kissed Anthea on the cheek as a form of thank you, she hadn't been jealous in the least. She remembered feeling that way about Roger who would often spend his time flirting and then passing it off as one big joke. Maybe it was a lack of love for her husband that made her not care? No, that was ludicrous! Isabelle stamped her hands down on her knee at the very idea. She loved Mycroft more than any man she'd ever known. What it really came down to, she supposed, was trust. Mycroft Holmes _would not, could not_ , cheat on her (or eat green eggs and ham… ug, the way her mind worked sometimes). The way he looked at her was so different from the way he looked at Anthea. He had, after all, chosen to marry Isabelle. And he sure as Hell didn't talk to Anthea about his emotions! With Isabelle, he could. Ok, so maybe he didn't do it on a regular basis- but it still mattered. All in all, one thing Isabelle knew she could never be was jealous- though sometimes she kind of thought she should have been. Wasn't that the normal thing? Eh, she'd never really cared for normal anyways.

Isabelle watched Anthea's return to the room and she decidedly smiled as bright as she could. That earned her an odd look but it was worth it. Not soon after Mycroft came out of his office as well and turned eyes upon his wife, "Apologies for the wait My Dear," he smiled honestly. Isabelle stood up and approached him, placing a hand on his chest as she leaned in to kiss him. She felt his hands on her narrow hips for only a moment then he pulled away from her in a timely fashion. "I will return in exactly two hours. Do try not to blow up the country while I'm gone," he purred at Anthea. "Yes sir," she replied with an all knowing crooked smirk. Isabelle felt Mycroft's hand twine with hers in an oddly open display of affection and she reciprocated easily. Leaning against his arm Isabelle said, "Goodbye Anthea, it was nice seeing you again."  
"And you Mrs. Holmes," Anthea waved a hand vaguely in her direction, having turned her attention towards her computer screen, probably typing something that would save the free world as they knew it.

"How would you feel about visiting your old place of work My Dear?" Mycroft asked calmly, leading her to the elevator. She blinked, pulled out of her thoughts rather suddenly. "Wha? Oh, I wouldn't mind. I haven't had one of their muffins in ages," she agreed. They stopped inside and Mycroft jabbed one of the numbers with the tip of his umbrella.

"Mycroft?" He raised an eyebrow, "Hm?"  
Isabelle leaned her head against his shoulder, "You know I love you right?"  
"If only because you keep repeating it," he smirked at her. Isabelle rolled her eyes, "Oh right, I forgot how much that offends you. I mean it though."  
"Of course you do My Dear," he squeezed her hand. Isabelle let her eyes drift shut, "And I know I'm no Anthea but-"  
Mycroft pulled away and frowned before she could finish her sentence, "What on earth does that mean?" he questioned. Isabelle's smile grew tenfold, "Nothing. Nothing at all." He continued to look at her funny, she couldn't really blame him.

"I see. You, My Dear, are an odd duck. Though of course...I've always preferred it that way."

* * *

 ** _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!_ AG, I hope you're all still here! I mean, in all fairness a lot of the wait was due to real life. Among the _many_ things that happened the computer I write on blue screened and had to be fixed (on a side note, I lost my favorite word program! I'm writing this on Google Docs, which is nice enough but not the same. *sigh*) AND, the fair. I show goats. I'm so glad it's over so I can now spend more time writing! (Oh please don't let anything else happen lol)**

 **Thank you again to Red for being concerned about me, I'm ok. You're awesome for reviewing a lot of my other stories btw. I'm rather amused you found The Abominable Isabelle Long funny. X)**

 **As for this chapter, I know the ending sucks but: This is both a jab (meant all in good fun) at Mythea (which I don't ship, not even while reading "A first time for everything" which is really good, right alongside Mystrade which I've come to outright oppose. I just can't do it. Don't know why) and the jealousy arc. I HATE the jealousy arc. For goodness sake trust your partner! Stop being a jag! Haha.**

 **Please review! (The second part to Dragons and She is almost finished btw. No worries XD)**


	24. Dragons and She (Part 2)

**Dragons and She Part 2-**

Isabelle remembered many years ago waking up to the sound of the sheep screaming.

Not bleating or really any sounds one might expect from a sheep . _Screaming_. Both Gloria and Maria had forcefully shoved her out of bed, shouting at her to go out and be useful but otherwise departing no other information. She'd gone out in her nightgown, sticks tearing at her feet and wet grass making her slip and land flat on her backside. Her sisters ignored her in favor of rounding up the flock, which she could hardly blame them for. Isabelle had looked up from her place on the ground, ready to climb to her feet again, when she saw it. An enormous shape in the inky blackness...A Dragon. The level of pure awe and fear that consumed her doubly ate her insides when the great Dragon stood before her. More than even Sherlock had done to her, this beast instilled terror into her very being. Isabelle's shaking hands found her tattered skirt which she gripped, her heart beating evenly if not too quickly in her chest.

The Dragon seemed to take great pleasure in her fear as the corners of his mouth turned upwards."I wouldn't move if I were you unless you want your death to come sooner rather than later," the Dragon purred. His (again, pretty sure it was a he) voice was soft and smooth as silk. Isabelle, despite her fear, noted that no smoke rose from his nostrils unlike Sherlock who could choke a whole room with how much he put out. "I know, Miss Longshadow, what a Princess is. And you are not it."

"How do you know?" she couldn't help but ask. To a human she certainly didn't appear as a Princess. The farthest thing from it really. But she'd assumed all Dragons were a bit naive about it- if Sherlock was anything at all to go by. The Dragon spoke plainly, "I'm not an idiot."

"Oh..." Isabelle coughed, forcing her gaze away from the beast and down to the stone floor of the cave. It was oddly pristine in its cleanliness, no dust or dirt caked even into the cracks. Silence ensued wherein the Dragon seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and would wait the rest of his life if he had to. Isabelle had to fight to use her voice again, "I-I don't know what to say... I had to lie or I'd get eaten," she bit her bottom lip thinking about it, "It wasn't even a good lie!" her eyes burned. He hummed, "I see. Well your efforts have been rendered useless now haven't they." Isabelle nodded, her eyes definitely watery at that point. He was going to eat her. Oh God he was _really_ going to eat her! Isabelle brought a hand up to her face to wipe at her eyes, "I know," she sniffled. If she thought running were an option that would have been a great one. But she was not nearly fast enough to escape the enormous beast, and even if she were who was to say that her means of escape was anything more than a cliff edge? She'd never gotten the chance to really look at it.

Hot, moist air made her skin feel sticky as the Dragon lowered his head, lips parted to show off his teeth. In that moment Isabelle should have screamed and begged, or maybe held her own in a fight against the thing about to eat her. Instead she said the first thing that came to mind: "What's your name?"

The Dragon paused, seeming almost to frown, "Your death is imminent, what use would that information be?" Isabelle considered it for a moment then found purchase to shrug. Something about his hesitation settled her roiling stomach. He wanted to talk she would make him talk, if only because talking wasn't _eating._ "I see," he purred, "So you're stalling."

She hesitated, "I _do_ want to know but I guess I am." What happened? How could she have gone from terrified to less-than-so in the course of only one sentence? Isabelle didn't dare questions it. The Dragon huffed impatiently either at her or at himself for not having disposed of her already, "If you must know," he conceded, "To the human population my name is Mycroft."

Isabelle tested it once in her mouth, almost relishing the feel of it. It was an odd name, though surely not for a Dragon if Sherlock was any indication. The young woman couldn't help but smile at him.

Mycroft pulled his head back so that he came to his full height, towering like a giant (another creature Isabelle had no interest in meeting) over the relatively small human. "Miss Longshadow-"

"Long."

"Pardon?" The Dragon blinked. Isabelle cleared her throat, "Isabelle Long. I-I made up the shadow bit." A moment's pause and then Mycroft uttered a swift, "Ah, yes, of course. Miss _Long_." While his face was not overly expressive beyond smiling and frowning Isabelle thought she saw annoyance in his steely eyes. She really was pushing her luck. "Miss Long, I hope you won't find it impertinent of me for asking- mostly because if you don't answer I will kill you immediately- but I _was_ wondering… Do you know how to prepare Cherries Jubilee*?"

Isabelle blinked up at the enormous beast, floundering for a few moments on what to say, "Che- what?" she stumbled. Mycroft sniffed, "Hm, I didn't think so. Well then, how are you at organization?" his tail twitched around his back foot, a loud snap echoing through the small space when the copper scales met the stone floor. Isabelle liked the color where the light touched, it almost sparkled. Her gaze followed the lines of his body until she found his left wing. If it were to unfurl she thought it might reach the distance of their sheep pasture, maybe more. From her current angle she couldn't see the right. "I'm… alright at it," she mumbled, "My sisters would say horrible, but I do keep the dishes clean and-and I am in charge of the farm equipment." She felt dreadfully stupid. "I see. You will have to do I suppose," Mycroft's wing extended with his words revealing nearly see through flesh, leathery and thin. "D-do for what?" Isabelle asked.

Mycroft refurled his wing so it sat tight against his side, "I am in need of a creature with thumbs," he lifted up one of his front legs to reveal a four toed foot, thick claws glinting dangerously, "to organize my brother's heap."

"Sherlock's horde?" - _Brother?!_

"Indeed. It is an eyesore of the worst variety. If you agree to help me you won't die. If not...well, I'm sure you're aware of the consequences."

Isabelle gaped at him. Yet again the Dragons had offered her a chance at life, despite being the ones that had put her in danger in the first place. There was something in Mycroft's decision not to kill her that whispered to her that he hadn't wanted to in the _first place_. She couldn't be sure of that though. Isabelle nodded stiffly, "Of course I'll help uh...thank you," she cleared her throat. If anything it gave her more time. Time to think and plan a good escape. Mycroft looked pleased, "Good," he practically singsonged, "We will start tomorrow then shall we."

* * *

The following day Isabelle made her way to the back of the cave, Sherlock hadn't returned in over three days and she doubted even if he were there if he would care. The great beast enjoyed having her fawn over his intelligence but otherwise saw her as a nothing object he kept like an item in his horde. It was finding herself under the scrutiny of Mycroft that made Isabelle realize just how lonely she'd been. At home there had been the constant presence of both her sisters (as disparaging as they might have been) and the people of the nearby village that mostly ignored her, sometimes calling her out as "Lillian's daughter". The beast (if you could call him that) had curled his gargantuan body delicately around the tables and piles, his upper lip curled in disdain to show off three of his sharp front teeth. Isabelle tried not to come too close as she began separating books in different languages. Her hazel eyes kept randomly travelling back to the creature. He breathed slow, chin tilted upwards though it made him look refined. A low growl would erupt from deep in his throat whenever she made a mistake in the sorting process, to the point of Isabelle's short temper snapping, "I would know what I was doing wrong if you'd tell me!"

"No, no, you're doing fine," he smirked, smaller scales at the corners of his mouth tilting with the loose flesh. Isabelle sighed, putting her hands upon a thick red covered tome. Dust filled her nostrils seemed to coat her lungs making her cough. Reading the cover she realized that she owned that book! She traced the edge of the cloth cover with her fingers, slipping them easily between one of the pages and flipping it open.

" _-It was enacted that we as people preserve the Dragon Race as best we can. Many took to rioting at the gate of Tyrony Flax who first suggested the document be written and signed. It was famously said that the rioters were then eaten by a passing Dragon- a Common Red."_

Dragons and You: A guide by Suez Johnson.

"Pure tripe if you don't mind my saying," Mycroft sniffed disdainfully, "No such law was ever created." He must have had incredible eyesight to know exactly where she was in the book. Isabelle shut the tome with an audible thump, coughing again as she carried it over to the "English" pile. "I'm learning that a lot of stuff in these books aren't true," she replied, keeping her gaze lowered to avoid sounding confrontational. "Hm," the Dragon huffed, "Put that over there. No, don't be stupid- on the third pile to the left. Yes." Isabelle did as he asked quickly, running a hand through her unwashed hair. She'd done the best she could without soap. Things went on like that for some time until Mycroft rather suddenly declared her to be finished for the day. "I haven't the energy to keep watching you meandre about," he rumbled, standing tall. Isabelle could only nod. She wasn't sure how happy Sherlock would be when he returned from his "trip" to find his things not where he'd left them. Mycroft turned to leave, carefully stepping over the heaps of still untouched er, _treasures_. It was then that Isabelle saw something she'd never seen before. Mycroft's right wing. It was amazing how he'd moved before without her ever truly seeing the right side of his body, though she supposed two interactions wasn't enough for her to find it overly odd. The young peasant woman gaped at the sight. The flesh in three different parts of his wing were scaleless, pale and scarred. The mottled flesh hung loose in some places, the arms connected to the leathery hide were oddly devoid of muscle looking truly garrish with the bumps and the few purplish patches that had formed. Mycroft walked off, leaving Isabelle alone with her thoughts.

* * *

Isabelle scouted out the part of the cave that Mycroft always stayed in. Always meaning quite literally always. The Dragon only seemed to leave when he wanted to organize Sherlock's horde with her. This proved rather irritating because he constantly blocked her exit! It was on one of those scouting missions Isabelle found Mycroft staring into the sky from the entrance, his eyes narrowed as though he was falling asleep- nothing new, he did a lot of sleeping. The young woman sighed to herself, blowing a greasy strand of chestnut hair away from her face. The first thing she would do when she got home (if she got home) would be to take a hot bath, then she would hug her siblings, then she would… what? Blinking back unwanted tears she approached the Dragon and in a fit of bravery sat herself beside him. She could feel the heat radiating off his thick body and she felt the urge to touch him. Certainly if she tried to find out she would be eaten. One grey eye (for that was all she could see) turned to her and he huffed, a wisp of smoke rising from his nostrils. He said nothing though, merely shifting his one good wing. Thinking of that: "C-can I ask what happened?" she managed to choke out, heat consuming her face. Mycroft inhaled and exhaled slowly, "Hush, Isabelle," he soothed, "My brother hordes knowledge... _I_ horde silence," his eyes closed completely. The human beside him wrapped her skinny arms about her legs, her chin resting on her knobby knees. They were too high for the sound of crickets or even really the breeze blowing through the trees but Isabelle decided the perfect silence was nice in its own way. Comfortable even. Isabelle let her eyelids flutter shut.

"It was an Agrorian spear."

And of course she was pulled rather suddenly from her stupor by the silky sound of Mycroft's voice. Isabelle squeezed her legs tighter together, "Yeah?"

" _Yes_. My brother and I were hunting and we were _caught_ ," his eyes were still closed but Isabelle noted a few more wisps of smoke had begun to rise, Perhaps it only occurred when he was agitated. "The wound became infected and refused to heal properly. Sherlock suggested removing the appendage entirely but I refused. Holding out hope," he tilted his head, smiling bitterly.  
"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the Dragon hummed, "I almost prefer it this way. With the ability to fly there was always so much undue _moving_." His eyes opened and his smile turned into a grin. Isabelle chuckled, letting her knees go and instead leaning back with her palms pressed firmly against the cavern floor, "That book… It- it said that if a Dragon can't fly, it's only choice is death. I guess that's another thing it got wrong," she craned her neck to look up at him properly. Mycroft considered her words then seemed to nod a little bit awkwardly, "Most do with nowhere to hide. Survival depends on food, water, and shelter. I managed to gather all three," another puff of smoke, "With the help of my brother." He looked a little annoyed by that- she couldn't blame him. "It must be lonely."

"Hardly," Mycroft scoffed, "I am a solitary being, I always have been."

Isabelle shook her head, "I believe you. But I also think that even the most solitary person needs someone once in awhile. And I would miss being outdoors with the trees and the animals and the grass..." her expression turned whistful.

"I'm not a person, take that back!" objected the Dragon with much fake indignation, his tail whipping about behind him. Isabelle laughed heartily, "I'm sorry," she lifted a hand briefly to waggle her fingers at him. The oddness of her actions did occur to her at that moment, like being struck by a bullet without the pain. The shock spread an even pinkness across her face and ears. Mycroft noticed that she'd stopped laughing and cleared his throat, "Are you lonely?"

The questions surprised her and she had mind staggered to find an answer. _Not right now. Not with you._ But what of the rest of the time? Mycroft craved being alone more often than being with her it seemed so she stayed away unless he called. She felt just so...alone. "No," she lied, "I miss my sisters but I'm not lonely."

Something in his silence told her that he didn't believe her.

* * *

Sherlock returned. The great beat of his wings filled the cavern then he swooped in as expertly as a bat catching a bug in midair. Isabelle shoved her hair behind her ears, watching as he approached her with a sheep hanging from his mouth. He set the dead animal down at his feet, licking at the blood in his teeth with a long, deft tongue. Isabelle watched his great wings tuck against his side and the ripple of muscle in his sinewy neck when he swung his head. Approaching from another direction was Mycroft. The young human stood in the archway, amazed by the sight of both Dragons in the same room. She still couldn't comprehend the size of them, the power they held. When she'd been talking to Mycroft it had felt like talking to another human being, she didn't feel dwarfed. At that moment she most certainly did. Smoke rose steadily from Sherlock's nostrils, coming out in a puff when he seemed to snort at his brother. Mycroft ignored him in favor of checking out the sheep. For a moment Isabelle though it might have been off her farm. The idea startled her and sent her heart racing. But it couldn't have been, the ear was tagged with the number eighty-seven where theirs were bare. She placed a hand over her heart, willing herself to calm down.

"You've been gone far too long Brother Mine," commented Mycroft after a long bout of silence. His teeth briefly plucked at the wool and flesh of the animal at his feet, almost carelessly. This seemed to bother Sherlock because he grunted again, "I can't imagine what you did while I was gone," he bared his front teeth in derision, "Besides sleep."

"Oh this and that," Mycroft continued, clearly pretending to be unmoved by Sherlock's presence, "I did converse with your little...Princess." Sherlock blinked, "Who- Oh, yes the stuttering human girl. I have yet understand the desire to have a Princess, they're entirely boring."

Isabelle frowned, slightly hurt by his words. Of course she shouldn't have expected anything from him but… "Oh I don't know," Mycroft cut in, both wings separating from his side, showing off yet again the horrible disfigurement of the right, "She isn't particularly intelligent of course, but she has her uses."  
"Oh I'm sure she does," Sherlock scoffed, "Your sedentary lifestyle and old age are clearly getting to you."

"I'm only seventy years older than you brother," came the defensive reply.

Isabelle swallowed the horrible lump that had formed in her throat. She had her _uses_?! Now she understood her place, she was the pet! She came when Mycroft called, she hung around Sherlock hoping for attention! God, she was so pathetic. Biting her bottom lip hard and blinking back tears Isabelle found her resolution. She would leave now while both Dragons were preoccupied, and she would go home to her family and her farm and uh, sheep. She shook her head sharply then, clenching her fists, took up a march towards Mycroft's part of the cave.

Passing Sherlock's horde she couldn't help but stop and admire, though very shortly. The books had all been either shelved or properly piled. Maps had been tacked to the walls with care, others stretched across the uncluttered spaces. The floor was clear and had been swept with an Ash Ferr Isabelle had found near the pool in the back of the cavern. Under Mycroft's instruction she'd taken the scrolls and piled them, barely able to contain her amazement at the wide range. How Sherlock had found those things she'd never know. Looking at the room she felt a certain ache inside of her. So much time had been wasted. It was beautiful, but it should have been spent back at her home. Right? Sucking in a sharp breath she turned and returned to her original plan.

The gaping entry way of Mycroft's part of the cave greeted her with a fresh breeze blowing her hair away from her face and shoulders. It smelled of fresh grass and rain. Was this the smell of freedom? Hm, maybe. Isabelle stepped to the edge and looked down. It wasn't what she'd expected. The ledge thankfully didn't tilt inwards though it seemed a steady drop. Rather than a stairway there were sparsely placed outcroppings. Isabelle noted sharp claw marks in the stone, probably caused by Mycroft in his return from being hit with that spear... No! She had to think of her escape for crying out loud! Isabelle could see thicker chunks of rock further down whereas the higher bits were much smaller and looked harder to keep hold of. There was though, a way down. Tying her dress as best she could about her knees, Isabelle turned and slowly lowered herself until her leg dangled off the edge. Eyes closed, she felt around with her foot until it connected with solid stone. It seemed sturdy enough so she rested her slight weight on it, not releasing her hold on the edge until she felt safe enough. Sucking in frightened breaths she turned her hazel eyed gaze upon the next outcropping. It was a decent stretch but she had long enough legs. Easing herself onto the second stone she-

It shifted.

Isabelle's grip suddenly slipped and her weight shifted to the stone breaking beneath her. She cried out in alarm as her foothold completely gave out and sent her hurtling towards the trees bellow. Out of pure instinct she grasped at the first thing she saw, one of the bigger footholds. Isabelle's body slammed hard against it as she caught it with her forearms. Pain shot all the way up to her neck and she thought her wrists must have shattered within their casing. Still she held on, the stone cutting into her hands and causing them to bleed. Of course that was all she needed, something to make her hold slippery! She gasped for breath, pressure on her lower ribcage keeping her lungs from fully expanding- she didn't dare try to adjust her hold. Tears burned her eyes. She wasn't a strong person. Her arms were like twigs! She couldn't possibly lift herself up onto the stone, and without that she couldn't reach any other outcroppings. Isabelle whimpered, stilling her legs which dangled uselessly beneath her. Ok... Yeah, she was doomed.

A bird flew lazily by, completely oblivious to her distress. The air still smelled fresh and wonderful. Isabelle wondered what her sisters were doing without her. Working probably. If she died would they cry for her? They might have already thought she was dead in the first place. A cloud passed overhead casting a shadow over Isabelle's still form. Except, it wasn't a cloud. "Really My Dear," cooed an all too familiar voice, "I understand that humans have their hobbies but clinging for your life seems an odd choice."  
Isabelle laughed breathlessly, "Mycroft!" she gasped out, tears freely making their way down her thin cheeks. The Dragon was smirking though from her place she could see the tension in every line of his rounded shoulders, neck, and jaw. "I don't suppose you need rescuing?" he inquired in a lazy drawl. Isabelle couldn't find it in herself to be annoyed with him, though she really was desperate for a _hasty_ retrieval. "Yes please!"

Mycroft moved closer to the ledge, hooking it with his enormous claws. Carefully and in a manner so painfully slow he made his way down, keeping his back legs on the flat plain above. His head came down beside Isabelle, his face closer than it had ever been. His grey irises were dull but deep, the scales like copper had been melted then molded into perfect plates. They were just far enough apart for the skin beneath to move freely, but the space was thin and Isabelle was sure she couldn't fit her fingers between them. "Before I do anything, does human hair fall out when pulled?" It took a moment for her to understand the question. When she did Isabelle hastened to answer, "Yes, God yes!" she yelped.

"Alright," Mycroft hummed, "Then I will have to lift you by your abdomen."

Mycroft tilted his head sideways and opened his mouth. Isabelle felt her whole body slip nearly three inches from the stone until her chin was left pressed against edge painfully. She closed her eyes as hot sticky air surrounded her midsection and thighs. Next came the teeth and the tongue which pressured against her skin. She could tell he was being as gentle as possible as though she might break- a real possibility. Feeling safe in his hold Isabelle released the rock and Mycroft twisted his head back to its original position at the same time. Suddenly the teeth dug more painfully into her body, gravity weighing her down against them. At least, she thought almost wryly to herself, it wasn't Sherlock doing the saving. If he'd have done it she would have surely been skewered!

At an agonizing pace Mycroft pulled her up, his claws slipping dangerously two times on his way. On the final step the Dragon utilized his wings. The sight was beautiful, both of them stretching out to their full capability and flapping like those of a bird. The injured one was stiff and didn't produce much lift but the left one did, great gusts of wind shifting even the trees down bellow When they finally made it back to solid ground Isabelle was set down. For a long time she could only stay on her back, her breathing ragged and her wrists aching. She'd almost died! "Y-You saved me," she whispered, bringing herself uncomfortably to a standing position. The Dragon seemed to shrug it off, "And?"

Impulsively Isabelle surged forward and wrapped her arms around one of his legs, her hands not quite touching on the other side. "What in the world are you doing?" Mycroft demanded, sounding more confused than annoyed. Isabelle pressed her cheek against the hard but smooth scales, "When humans want to show affection they hug each other. I'm hugging you," she somehow managed to tighten her hold, "Thank you so much for not letting me fall to my death!'

"...It was my pleasure."

Sherlock would later find his brother asleep in a semi curled position, with _his_ Princess just as asleep against his side.

* * *

Isabelle woke up alone the following day. Her arms and shoulders ached worse than before but so far as she could tell nothing had been broken. A perusal of her body proved there to be bruises from Mycroft's teeth. They would fade in time.

Climbing to her feet Isabelle considered her options. It seemed there was no feasible way for her to climb off the mountain without her accidentally killing herself. The only way she could ever escape would be to fly, and surprisingly enough, she didn't have that ability. Rubbing at her reddened eyes in an attempt to stop the itchiness Isabelle made her way towards the middle of the cave where she knew Sherlock would be. Once again she found herself in the entryway looking into the room where both Mycroft and Sherlock sat, conversing with each other. Their was a certain level of tension between them, but also something rather comfortable about it that Isabelle thought only she could see. "I want you to release the girl."  
"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock rumbled. "Because I told you to do it," Mycroft returned. Ooh, wrong move. Sherlock let out a strange sound that could constitute for a laugh, "Don't pretend for a moment that you have any control over me Mycroft!"

"I'm not pretending anything," Mycroft hummed. He lapsed into silence wherein that silence Sherlock fumed. "She has no right to be here," the elder beast said in nearly a whisper, "You cannot force her to be happy with this life and having spent my time saving her, I would appreciate if you didn't kill her."

Sherlock considered his brother, "You've grown attached to my pet, growing soft are we?" he mused. Isabelle internally bristled. "That is rather hypocritical of you considering your 'relationship' with John."

John? Was he a Dragon too?

"John is not my pet-"

"And Isabelle is not mine so I recommend you hold your tongue."

Two pairs of intelligent eyes suddenly turned on Isabelle. Sherlock's face remained impassive whereas Mycroft's seemed to brighten. The young human stepped further into the room and cleared her throat, "I uh, I might have been listening."

"No, really?" Sherlock snorted, though the joke was good natured. "Miss Long I'm sure you've noticed then that I desire to send you home. Any objections?" Mycroft ignored his brother. Isabelle shook her head, "I can't think of one!"

She could think of quite a few actually.

Isabelle had thought that Sherlock would be the one to return her. Instead it was Mycroft. Slinging her leg over his thick neck and taking hold of his copper ridge she felt excitement and fear mingle with each other. Of course they weren't going to fly, but Mycroft could both climb and sort of...hover. So he utilized those skills to make it to the bottom without incident.

Walking alongside the trees contentment settled in her stomach. The gently sway of his body as he walked was quite nice as well. "Do you think we'll ever see each other again?" she asked. She knew it was dangerous for Dragons to be on the ground, especially with more Agrorian spears out there! Which was why Mycroft kept an eye out and remained in the shade of the trees whenever he could. "I imagine so," he commented blandly and a little out of breath. Isabelle ran a hand across his scales, "I would love to come back to the cave you know," she assured him, "I just can't _live_ there. I need my family and- and to eat something besides sheep!" she was sure she would never eat mutton again! At least they'd had the decency to cook it first.  
"I see," Mycroft hummed. Her cottage and field came into view. Home! HOME! Isabelle's heart swelled with relief. She could take a bath! And all that other stuff too of course.

"How does once a month sound?"

Snapped out of her thoughts Isabelle blinked at the Dragon, "What?" He twisted his head as if too look back at her with condescending stare but then remembered that she was on his neck behind his head and gave up. "My brother has taken it upon himself to add more things to his horde since his last adventure. I will of course need someone with thumbs to help me organize it all. How does once a month sound to you?"

Isabelle grinned, "It sounds wonderful!"

Her return home had been met with mixed feelings. Obvious relief that their sister hadn't parished, and annoyance that they would have to live with her again. Isabelle didn't mind, she was too busy grinning like a loon. Besides, she got some payback when a month later two Dragons arrived at their doorway. One asking for Princess Isabelle of Longshadow.

* * *

 ***Cherries Jubilee is a reference to "Dealing with Dragons" which is a pretty good book series, the books are pretty easy reads but entirely enjoyable! Cimerene is an awesome character.**

 **I had a lot of fun with this one though I'm not entirely satisfied with it. The thing about Dragons is that they're so loaded with potential, I feel like I missed doing something really cool. Y'know? If you feel the same, let me know X)**

 **One last thing, I am now writing on "Open Office" (man I miss my old word program, it worked with this site so well!) so if there are too many spaces or what have you that's why. It might be easier to read actually *shrug***

 **Red: I'm not a big shipper either. I'm definitely more fond of friendship (she says writing a romance fanfiction) and even when I do ship I never really go all in- it's just something fun to do. So that's another thing we have in common ;)**

 **Anywho, please review! (and again, pointing out typos or problems with the story won't insult me...deeply lol)**


	25. Dear Isabelle

**Dear Isabelle (Letters Universe)-**

 _From: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***  
_ _To: Longway***_

Dear Isabelle,

It has come by my attention that you have been writing my brother numerous letters. It has also come to my attention that he has been writing you back.  
I'm afraid I must kindly request that you cease and desist this at once.

Thank you.

-SH

* * *

 _From: Longway ***_

 _To: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***_

Dear Sherlock,

Hi! I'm sorry it took so long to reply, but I admit I needed a few days to uh, digest, your Email (Also, how did you get my Email address? Maybe it's better I don't know). You told me to stop but that's impossible. I don't know what Mycroft has told you (if anything) about our writing to each other, but we had a bit of a kerfuffle when I didn't write him back and… well. Anyways, my point is you'd have to hold me at gunpoint to make me stop haha. Besides, you didn't give me a reason why I should stop.

It's nice to know you recognize my existence though, the last time I saw you I don't think you said a word to me.

You're welcome?

Sincerely, Isabelle Long

* * *

 _To: Longway ***  
From: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***_

Reason #1: He's insufferable.

Reason #2: Based on the letters you wrote to him you're not all that smart, so at some point he will get bored of you, call you a goldfish, and move on.

Reason #3: You're wasting a lot of paper and killing the earth.

Reason #4: It's annoying.

As you can see it's the safer option to just quit now. I would. The last thing you need right now is to be writing my fat, know-it-all brother. I'm sure you have many other, _wonderful_ things to do with your time.

-SH

* * *

 _To: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***  
_ _From: Longway ***_

Dear Sherlock,

Wow.

Ok, first of all: Your brother may be a bit...trying, once in awhile. But he is not insufferable!  
Second, I get that I'm not smart. I can't disagree (though I'm letting myself be insulted. Jerk.) And at first I was afraid of that. But you know what? I'm not anymore. We've been writing for like three years now, maybe more! So yeah. I guess intelligence

Third: It's not that much paper...

And lastly, how is it annoying? Mycroft lives in London now because of his new job. Unless he comes to you about me all the time (which is kind of laughable) there's no way this affects you!

Also. Your brother isn't fat. Just putting that out there. To tell the truth right now I don't have much going on with my life. Writing your brother is one of the highlights.

I guess I don't understand your motivation for coming to me NOW of all times. We do see more of each other now that he lives in London, but I don't think that changes too much.

* * *

 _To: Longway ***  
From: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***_

He is insufferable, you are letting emotional attachment blind you.

Reason #5: He is manipulative. I wouldn't be so sure that three years mean anything.

It is annoying because on the few occasions we have been forced to talk with brother dear, he has brought up you. Insufferable.

He is, in fact. Since he moved to London he has gained nearly a stone.

You have a sad existence.

I already told you my reasons. It's a pain. There are a multitude of reasons for you two to stop writing each other, and seeing each other in general. Neither of your personalities are suited for a healthy relationship of any sort. And while I wouldn't normally care, it is getting in the way of my not puking when I wake up in the morning.

-SH

* * *

 _To: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***_  
 _From: Longway***_

It feels weird to be told that my existence is sad by a twelve year old.  
Isn't that the point? The fact that I got emotionally attached in the first place is enough to tell you that I don't think he's insufferable! 8P

Is he manipulative? A bit controlling I guess. I guess you're making me think about Mycroft more so that's good. It's about the only good thing I've gotten out of this haha.

Mycroft talks to you about me? Wow, I didn't think that was something he would do. That's...cool I guess. haha

He's not fat!

Look Sherlock, I get that you're annoyed. But there's nothing you can really say that's going to make me stop writing and talking to your brother *shrug*. You said that I was wasting my time, but I really think I'm wasting my time writing back to you! So please stop, unless you want to talk about something else. If you do I'm completely open to conversation ok?

-Isabelle

* * *

 _To: wouldn'tyouliketoknow ***_

 _From: Longway ***_

Dear Sherlock,

Hey… uh… I think I get it now. I wasn't going to talk to you anymore because, well, as much as I like you (with so little information to go on) I was getting annoyed that you kept bad mouthing your brother. It came a little too close to home, y'know? But something changed a little bit and I guess I wanted to say something.

Mycroft asked me out. On a date. With food and everything!

And, looking over the Emails you sent me I think you knew he was going to do it. And I guess this probably wasn't your intention but I think this needs to be said.

 _I'm not going to hurt him._

I'm not going to up and leave him again without warning (or ever, he's a good friend if nothing else). So, that's it. I promise I won't. And if I do I give you permission to hunt me down and make it look like a suicide, ok? Haha

Lots of Love, Isabelle

* * *

 **wouldn'tyouliketoknow *** has blocked Longway *****

* * *

Dear Mycroft,

Just writing you a note that I'm leaving at your place, because if I sent it in the mail we would have gone on our date already and then it would seem like it was too late. It feels weird to say that, that we're dating, much less write it. I'm excited though, promise! Feel free when you're done reading this to roll it into a ball and try to get it in the trash in one go.

I just wanted to ask if you could tell Sherlock I said Hi? And thank you, and see you later. That sort of stuff. Just, don't leave out the thank you.

See you tomorrow! -Isabelle Long

* * *

 **A short kind of fluffy one shot that I really wanted to do. Probably OOC for Sherlock though.**

 **Again I'm sorry for the wait. The next chapter is going to be pretty long I think and I'm about a fourth of a way through ;) Thanks to Red for sticking with me, you're great!  
** **Just so you know that I'm on the level: The next chapter includes *Drumroll* Zombies! WOOO, yeah! It's the best thing ever WOOO! *Ahem* Anyways, please review!**


	26. Troll

**Troll (Regular ALWTH...sort of) -**

"MYC!"

At the sound of his wife's alarmed cry, Mycroft took up a near run from the kitchen (leaving behind a pot of boiling soup and a yet to be tossed salad) and into the library where Isabelle sat, laptop balancing precariously atop her knobby knees. "What? What's happened?!" he demanded breathlessly, analytical grey eyes searching about the room before landing on his seated wife. Isabelle looked up from the screen looking positively indignant, "Someone just left a terrible review!"  
Relaxing at the sight of a clearly _not-dying_ Isabelle, Mycroft allowed his annoyance to sink in, "Pardon?" he huffed, placing both hands on his narrow hips.

Isabelle's frown deepened, "Some- some _jerk_ just told _our_ writer to stop wasting her time and t-to overdose!" she closed her laptop with an audible snap. Mycroft stiffened visibly, having dealt with his brother's frightening habit and the consequences of it. "I see," he hummed darkly.

Isabelle snarled, "I can't abide anyone being rude to someone else for no reason! I mean, what if I told you that should die just because you made soup that I didn't like!"

"I thought you liked my cooking," Mycroft teased, "You are of course, right My Dear. Though it hardly matters does it."  
"So you're just going to take this sitting down?" Isabelle demanded of him, "I mean, they're anonymous but I'm sure one of your employees could find them!" she set her laptop aside, practically jumping to her feet. Mycroft put a placating hand on her arm, "My Dear, we have been together long enough for you to know that I take _everything_ sitting down," and with that he sat down in the spot Isabelle had just vacated, crossing one leg over the other. "What would you have me do?" he folded his hands over his knee, "I suppose I could send the crude reprobate to some foreign country."

"Ooh, yeah. Like the North Pole maybe? Either that, or the moon!"

Unable to contain themselves, the two broke out into laughter. Mycroft's more subdued (of course) and Isabelle's akin to a steaming locomotive. Sobering Mycroft said, "I'll see what I can do. Now, I'm afraid dinner has been thoroughly singed. How do you feel about going out to eat My Dear?"  
"I would love to," Isabelle took her husband's arm as he stood. Starting towards the doorway, Isabelle felt something nag at the back of her mind.

"Myc... We don't usually break the fourth wall do we?"  
Considering for a moment her husband frowned, "No, of course not."  
"Do you think we'll ever do it again?" Isabelle persisted, brow furrowing as she considered it. Mycroft stopped walking, looking pointedly at the wall for some reason. "Good Lord, I hope not." Then they continued, leaving said wall behind.

* * *

 **This is just me poking fun at the Troll/Guest that left a really rather terrible review on Dour, and a little bit of a jab at myself just cause haha. I'm not in the least bothered about it so don't worry.**

 **Zombies are still coming!**

 **Please review as always! (Oh, and Ellis Jenkins. I promise your reviews are coming! Lol)**


	27. Raging Horde, Eternally Bored

**Raging Horde, Eternally Bored (Warning for zombies and all that comes with them.** _ **Angst ahoy!**_ **) -**

Mycroft Holmes' return was not met with any form of fanfare. Or what little fanfare he usually received, ei. Anthea with her laptop feeding him information as they walked to the car. Instead the British Government was hustled along the walk by Bastian Kirk of all people, and practically shoved into the back of the jet black vehicle.

The call he'd received had sounded dire. Worse than dire, Anthea had sounded truly wrought- a sign of the apocalypse. Which, he supposed, it was. A great disease had swept across the United Kingdoms and America, and truly, the entire world. She reported cannibalism, an inability to recognize family members, the body's decay. And how truly infections it was, one bite and you were one of them. With these facts in mind it was no surprise that the Government was in tatters and needed a driving force to hold things together while they figured out a plan of action against the disease. Mycroft slid the seat belt across himself and buckled it, ordering Bastian to begin driving. The young man, twenty three years old, nodded firmly and seriously and started to drive.

The decay of the London streets was horrible. Cars abandoned, doors left open, blood pooled where it shouldn't have been. Mycroft felt a nagging guilt (truly pointless, it wasn't his fault) and anger (while still pointless, it was less unreasonable) and though he did not recognize it he felt sad. Five days. That was all it took.

Bastian Kirk was unusually silent. The man possessed a bubbly sort of personality and a strong desire to share it with the world. Normally Mycroft would have preferred the silence, but with everything so horribly empty the silence was deafening. "I must admit I am glad to see you untouched Mr. Kirk," he commented in a bland tone. The driver hesitated to reply, "Thank you Mr. 'olmes," he smiled faintly, "And you," he added for good measure, "I'd thought maybe the, em, disease, might've hit Russia-"

"It most certainly did, but when I left it was a burgeoning problem, not nearly so developed." Mycroft returned, pleased to have sound filling the small space. They took a turn down another seemingly deserted road, passing familiar, tightly packed buildings. Bastian was clearly attempting to avoid interaction with _them._ Mycroft slid his briefcase onto his lap with the intention of using his mobile, it would be a drive yet and-

 **THUMP**

Bastian swore quite proficiently, something Mycroft had never heard the younger man do. That was hardly the first thing on his mind though as a body had launched itself onto the windshield and cracked it, forcing the vehicle to screech loudly to a halt sideways on the road. Mycroft's neck ached after the fact, but again, he didn't much care. The body lay motionless in its own discolored blood for a short time, seemingly dead. Bastian breathed unevenly in the front seat sending a gloved hand through his dark brown hair. It was of course, not dead. And the roaming creatures, drawn by the sound of the car stopping? They weren't dead either. Mycroft grasped his umbrella with one hand, body stiffening as walking corpses stumbled towards them.

"Mr. Kirk, I greatly recommend we run."

* * *

Isabelle couldn't breathe. The heavy pounding, scratching, and moaning at her bedroom door drove her further and further into the corner. "Please no, leave me alone, please," she begged, tugging at her braid with shaking hands. These creatures, they were... they were monsters! Soon they would either find a way to turn the doorknob (her door required a key to lock it, which currently resided in one of the kitchen drawers) or they would break through it. Neither was something Isabelle wanted, but the idea spurred her into action.

Thinking more coherently than she figured possible under the circumstances, Isabelle pulled the blanket off her bed and bunched it as best she could in her arms. Then she turned to the bedside table and, shifting the blanket into one arm, picked up her reading lamp. Right. A viable weapon and a distraction of sorts... Sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, Isabelle considered if there was something she should bring with her on her escape. Her hands were full though, and she eventually decided against it.

Fighting back the terrible urge to throw up, Isabelle approached the stressed door. Her heart hammered in her chest, sending waves of fear through to her fingertips. "I can do this. Pull yourself together Isabelle," she whispered to herself, uttering something unrepeatable then flung the door open wide. It bumped into the opposite wall, the open space revealing three identically vacant expressions. Isabelle stood stunned, staring for far longer than she should have. They were all so...broken. Bits of them rotting, mouths hanging open with blood coagulating between their teeth. It was horrific, and Isabelle thought she might die just from the sight of it. But of course, one of the beasts came to and realized that the door had opened and a fleshy meaty person was standing right in front of it. With a screech it advanced. Isabelle screamed just as loudly, garnering the full attention of the other two as well. With one arm she threw the blanket over the first one's head (a woman), then she shoved as hard as she could, sending the confused body towards her bead. With aching shoulder she turned to the second and third. Two men, shorter than her, but stronger. Taking her lamp in both hands she swung it at the nearest creature's head sending it to the ground with a heavy thump and the overwhelming sound of shattering glass.

Finding an opening she pushed her way past the third and final zombie, the smell of rotting flesh filling her nostrils. Pain jolted up her arm as fingernails connected with pale skin, sliding from her elbow nearly down to her wrist. Still the beast could not find a hold and Isabelle continued to run, breathing raggedly, trying not to have a panic attack as she pushed her way past the front door and out into the hallway. To her left was a dead end so she ran the opposite direction, skipping the elevator as she usually did and leaping her way down the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. She found herself in an opening, the main double doors' glass broken and bloodied with the flesh of the zombies that had pushed their way through. Isabelle attempted to swallow a lump in her throat. What was she meant to do? If the newscasters had anything to say about it she was royally doomed! Sliding a hand over her hair she considered somewhere that might be safe. Perhaps other flats in the same building were her best option? She spun around to face the stairwell again, only to find the idea of going back up them enough to send her into hysterics. No, she couldn't do that. She couldn't stay.

Isabelle had just begun to consider the cafe where she worked (a ludicrous idea, considering the door was also glass) when another, more pressing thought struck her. Maria and Gloria had gone to a party and hadn't returned! She had been so wrapped up in the fear of being eaten that her thoughts had not once strayed to the safety of her sisters. Silently cursing herself Isabelle realized what she had to do. She had to find her family.

* * *

Walking through alleyways hoping to avoid the creatures, Isabelle was jumpy and easily startled. A piece of garbage nudging her foot caused her to gasp and jump about a foot in the air and then required several minutes for her to collect herself before furthering her adventure. She'd thought that the smell of the zombies had been bad in her flat, that was nothing compared to the horrid odor permeating the air outside! Wishing that she'd brought a map Isabelle came to a long stretch of road, all cars parked along the sidewalk beaten and bruised. One, she'd discovered, had a dead zombie on it. So they could die. Somehow the thought didn't help her frayed nerves. Upon further inspection of the area Isabelle caught sight of a group of the creatures. They stood hunched together, drawn towards each other by the sound of their own moaning. Every so often one would bump shoulders with another and they would lash out, only to realize that it was not the flesh of a human they so desired. Mouth dry, stomach empty, and dearly in need of a bathroom, Isabelle walked. She kept close to the rows and rows of buildings as she walked, giving the horde a wide birth. Their vacant faces did not turn to her, assuring her that none of them could hear her very well over their own vocals. A car alarm might draw them from their group, or perhaps even the sound of tires against the concrete. Silently she continued, brushing fingers over her the deep scratches on her thin arm. It stung and would benefit from bandaging, but she had little choice in the matter.

The party was said to be just off of Baker street, though the exact address she had no idea. Isabelle tried very hard not to dwell on her poorly laid out plain.

Isabelle had made it half way to her destination when her shoe connected with a crack in the pavement and she fell flat on the ground, a yelp of surprise escaping her. Hands scratched and bleeding Isabelle tried hard not to cry out again. Not that it would have made much of a difference. Her initial shout had garnered the attention of the horde. Twenty, maybe thirty pairs of dead eyes turned on her. Mouths hung open to let saliva dribble down their collective chins. One of them screeched and started up a run. This drew the rest of the group and whilst some merely stumbled in her direction because they had no choice, five or six of them had begun to sprint. Adrenaline spiked from Isabelle's core, to down her legs and all the way to her fingertips. As quickly as she could she sprang to her feet, running in the direction she had been going if only because that was the way she was facing. Isabelle's long legs carried her farther than the shorter creatures chasing after her, and with the head start she had a good chance of escape. The problem was, to where? Isabelle eyed the doors as she passed, almost all of them opened or broken of their hinges. When she did find a solid looking door, closed, she didn't hesitate to test to see if it was locked. Amazingly enough it wasn't and she pushed her way through it, sparing one last look at the beasts chasing after her, climbing over each other to reach her. The door slammed behind her and Isabelle leaned against it, tears forming in her eyes and beginning to roll down her thin face. The outraged cries and collective moans could still be heard, and yet none of them made a move towards the door. Isabelle waited a considerable amount of time before she stepped away from it and searched for a lock, when she found it she turned it, only to find that it didn't work. Aha.

Turning around Isabelle thought she should probably ascend the staircase rather than remain on the lower level, so she did just that. One of the stairs squeaked when she stepped on it, sending a chill down her spine. Hot tears still trailed their way down her face, but she made no move to remove them. It had been a tiring, terrifying day, and she deserved to cry just this once. " _As if you don't cry all the time. Pathetic."_ the voice in her head chose that moment to interrupt, taking up the voice of Gloria. God...she needed to find her! Isabelle wiped snot from her upper lip with her sleeve before going through yet another door into what appeared to be a living room. It was well organized, though filled with many oddities. The walls were wallpapered black and white, one of them marred by a spray painted smiley face. A fireplace stood on the other side, atop the mantle sat a number of oddities. A skull, a penknife stabbed into the wood beside it at a right angle, a piece of paper hanging indelicately over the edge. She would have noticed more, but all of the strangely cozy flat left her head for the couch. Or more importantly, the body _on_ the couch.

She could tell immediately that this stranger was not a zombie, his pale skin too clear, his mouth opened revealed no blood, saliva, or a collection of human meat in his teeth. His thick brown hair looked tousled and otherwise un-brushed, but suited his handsome features. Very young, but handsome. Perhaps nineteen? Twenty?.With his thin face pinched with tension she noted that he was alive, but a large purple and yellow bruise on his forehead told her that he was unwell. Silently she padded over to him and placed a hand on his covered shoulder, a blanket having been awkwardly draped over his small frame. He let out a soft moan, digging his face into a Union Jack pillow. Isabelle bit her lip, considering whether she should alert him to her presence or let him sleep. For all she knew he was dangerous, despite his innocent exterior. Of course with his wound he might not have been able to do anything about it so Isabelle didn't put too much stake behind it. Without thought she pulled the bottom of the blanket up so that it covered his sock clad feet. His shoes had been placed at the end of the couch placed together evenly. It was odd that someone who was injured might have both found a proper blanket and taken the time to methodically untie his shoes and place them so perfectly beside him. Isabelle didn't think to much about it until she heard the sudden creak behind her.

Startled Isabelle spun around, heart hammering. The worst scenario flitted through her mind. Immediately though the idea of a zombie coming down the stairs to eat her was trumped by the completely human figure before her. The new man frowned at her, not coming any closer. His grey eyes searched her, "Who are you?"

"Uh, Isabelle Long," she quickly answered. "Mhm, and why exactly are you here?" the man stepped once towards her. He was handsome in his own way, a long nose, well combed brown hair, a slim body bedecked in dark waistcoat over button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and grey trousers that partially covered well-polished shoes. "I- I don't want to die?" Isabelle mumbled, attempting to wipe the stray tears away from her face and dearly hoped there wasn't too much snot.

"Fair enough," the man conceded, "If you don't mind Miss Long," he rather randomly waved a hand as though shooing her. Isabelle stepped off to the right, eyebrows drawn together with confusion. Her silent question was answered when the stranger made his way to her side of the room and bent down to the level of the unconscious man.

"Is- is he your...?"

"My Driver? Yes," the man brushed back the younger man's dark hair with a gentle touch, inspecting the bruise. Then he slid the blanket further up towards the man's chin and turned to face Isabelle, pushing his hands into his pockets. Isabelle bit her lip hard, unsure of what to say. "How rude of me. Mycroft Holmes," the stranger said after a pause, extending a hand. Isabelle accepted it, silently relishing the warmth and the comfort of another human being's presence. He smelled nice, which by all means was an odd thing to consider at such a moment. Their contact was short lived, Mycroft pulled his hand back and shoved it into the safety of his pocket once again. He scrutinized her with piercing cloudy grey eyes.

Fighting against the urge to stare right back at him Isabelle stepped over to one of the two tall windows, looking down at the creatures below. They meandered listlessly around the door, not coming close.

"They won't come in here Miss Long, I made sure of that," Mycroft said from behind her, his voice cool and crisp cutting through the silence. "How?" she asked, brow furrowing. The man and his minty scent came close behind her and looked down as well, carefully keeping just enough distance to remain proper as he did so. "I through poisoned meat at them," he smirked. Isabelle blinked, "You...what?" she yelped.  
Mycroft huffed as though annoyed, "I threw meat at them, it had been poisoned. It didn't kill them of course, but they no longer care to come near this building." Isabelle blinked, casting a brief glance at him, "That-that's really clever," she smiled. She didn't dare ask where he got the poison.

A groan sounded behind them and two pairs of eyes quickly flew to the man on the couch. His sparkling blue eyes, faded with incomprehension, fluttered open. "Mr. Kirk, good to see you've joined the living," Mycroft said jovially, though his serious expression didn't quite match it. Bastian blinked, "Mr. 'olmes? Oh, thank God you're alive!" he gasped, attempting to sit up but failing. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm alive," the well dressed man sniffed. Mr. Kirk allowed Mycroft to ease him flat on his back, then to search his eyes and his wound another time. Isabelle stood at a distance, watching the display with both amusement, relief, and a fondness for the newly awoken stranger who smiled so kindly it was hard not to return with her own. The younger man swallowed, "I thought we were done for when they swarmed our car Mr. 'olmes. I have never been more afraid!"  
"Yes, yes, alright Mr. Kirk. You are safe now. Shall I fetch you some water? Only this once mind," smirked Mycroft. Mr. Kirk nodded, then winced, "Yes sir, please sir."

Mycroft wandered off towards what Isabelle assumed was the kitchen. She twined her fingers together in front of her, feeling distinctly awkward. The stranger finally caught on to her presence and smiled, "'ello, oo'r you?"

Introductions were made. The boy was Bastian Hansel Kirk (an odd name to be sure, though hardly as strange as _Mycroft_ ). Mycroft returned with the water and the Driver drank from the glass. He then went on to explain their predicament. It seemed that a zombie attack had driven both of them into the safest (and the closest) place they knew, and had been hiding out since, which was a day and a half. Isabelle listened with rapt attention until suddenly Mycroft turned his grey eyed gaze to her arm, "You're injured Miss Long," the concern, though present in his voice, was very little. Isabelle looked at her pale arm, the scratches looked rather gruesome, with dried blood and barely formed scabs. "Oh…" was all she could think to say. _Positively eloquent Isabelle_ she thought to herself bitterly. Isabelle was suddenly ushered towards a bathroom on the left, at end of a hall, just through the kitchen. "I recommend a shower, then bandaging those scratches." Isabelle couldn't help but agree, and did dearly desire a shower. Part of her feared disrobing in a building with strangers, but also somehow knew she could trust them. Bastian wouldn't come after her at least, and Mycroft looked entirely disinterested. "If you would like, I could prepare something for you to eat as well." How could she refuse?

It was stepping out of the shower, towel wrapped around herself, when Isabelle heard a noise. A thump coming from just upstairs. She stiffened, recognizing the sound as a human body meeting the floor. Quickly dressing in her old clothes (save for a man's shirt Mycroft offered her that didn't like it belonged to him but fit quite well on her). She rushed out of the bathroom, long wet hair soaking the butt of her jeans. Mycroft looked unperturbed as he plated an omelette and a piece of dry toast then handed it to her. "Did- did you hear that?" she asked, body still tense. Mycroft stared at her, "Hear what exactly Miss Long?" he purred. Somehow she guessed that he knew what she was talking about. "Nothing," she said after a comfortable pause, "Nevermind. Thank you," she lifted the plate.  
It seemed upon entering the main room, that Bastian Kirk had fallen back asleep. Mycroft came into the room behind her and hummed, "He will need his rest."  
Isabelle looked up at him from her plate of eggs, "Why?" she asked after swallowing. The question wasn't exactly "why would he need his energy?" as much as "why would he need it so soon?". Mycroft guessed correctly and turned to her, casually checking his golden pocket watch. Isabelle hadn't noticed before but there was a touch of blood splatter soaked into the fabric of his waistcoat. Most likely from their narrow escape earlier. She found it much harder to swallow her toast. "Because I need to return to my work and immediately," he explained as though talking to a slow child. Isabelle wrinkled her petite nose, "What do you do that could still be...going on?" she asked, frowning. Mycroft clicked open the watch and observed the time for longer than was really necessary. "Government," he put up a hand before she could interrupt him, "One could argue that there is very little left to govern, but if any semblance of control is to be had they will need me." his earnest expression told her he wasn't lying. In a soft voice she said, "You must be very powerful…"  
In a similar tone he responded, "Not as much as I'd like to My Dear."

When night came around Isabelle had been given the bed in an odd bedroom near the bathroom. A framed picture of the periodic tables hung on one wall but otherwise the room was rather bare. Upon further inspection she found a small photograph atop a dresser, hidden behind a lump of dirty clothing. She picked it up and looked at it. A small boy, pale skinned with curly hair and a skinned knee standing next to a prim and proper teenager, somewhat chubby and long nosed. She stared at it, her bottom lip going between her teeth. A loud thump the same as the one she'd heard before brought Isabelle out of her thoughts and she thrust the frame back onto the smooth wooden surface. She spun around, shoulders tense and heart racing. What was that sound!?

* * *

The following day was uneventful. Bastian was able to sit up, Mycroft made tea that was slightly bitter because the sugar (as he said) could not be trusted. He sat across from her, cup and saucer held carefully in his between his fingertips. Isabelle was not quite so proper and held the cup between both hands, blowing away the steam. It was oddly surreal to go from the zombie apocalypse to drinking tea with a well dressed stranger. Isabelle extended a leg and accidentally bopped her foot against Mycroft's. He, almost playfully, returned the favor. Isabelle felt oddly comfortable. "I saw a picture in uh, that room," she pointed a finger towards the hallway whilst keeping the rest against her cup. It would be terrible if she managed to spill her tea! "Oh?" Mycroft asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. She nodded, taking a sip of the hot liquid and burning a part of her tongue, "I was, uh, I was wondering if that was you in it?"  
He hesitated to answer, taking a long drink of his bitter tea, gaze locking onto his knees until he was finished. Isabelle waited patiently for him to finish. "Yes," he said finally, clearing his throat, cheeks shading the slightest bit red. Confidant Isabelle continued, "Who's the other boy, if you don't mind me asking?" *THUMP* went the upstairs. Mycroft quirked his mouth into a fake smile, "My little brother," he supplied calmly, "What does this matter to you Miss Long?"  
Noting his clear discomfort Isabelle blushed harder than he did, "I don't know… It takes my mind off the monsters outside. And I guess I would like to know more about you. I have two sisters. Which is why I'm out here in the first place," her heart felt squeezed. Mycroft nodded, "Mm," as if he already knew.

Night came again and Isabelle couldn't get to sleep. The thought of her sisters still out there keeping her awake. The flat was silent, the sound of whatever it was upstairs had ceased its bumping. Still, she wondered what could have possibly caused such a racket. A zombie? A dog? Another person? But if any of those were true why didn't Mycroft tell her about it? Suddenly driven by a rabid curiosity Isabelle sprang out of bed and pulled on her trousers but didn't put on shoes so as to remain silent as she left her room and went to the stairs. Without thought she grasped a small black poker that stood next to the fireplace (likely put there only for the image) then she started to climb. Her hands trembled the further up she went. Breathing in slowly through her nose and exhaling through the mouth she extended a pale hand to the doorknob and twisted it. A small click followed as she applied pressure, and the door swung open at a snail's pace. Isabelle looked into the room, hazel eyes wide and fearful for what could possible be up there with her. What she saw was... sat on the floor, moaning. Isabelle felt red hot emotion suddenly swallow her at the sight. The creature had not rotted overly much, showing how handsome he was. Dark curls framing porcelain skin, strong cheekbones and cupid's bow lips. There was something painfully familiar about him that scared Isabelle. At the sound of her stepping into the room his multicolored (if not faded) gaze travelled to her and he snarled, foam forming on his lips suddenly ruining the perfect picture. Isabelle gasped as he sprang to his feet showing off a tall, lithe figure, muscles bulging in his neck and upper arms. Something kept her from running away completely, and she realized not too long after just why. A long chain had been criss crossed across his chest, tied at the end to a bed. The bed must have been bolted to the ground because his pulling did little to move it. All hard edges had either been cushioned with pillows or removed, there was no dresser in the room nor space atop or below the large bed for him to hurt himself on. Isabelle's mouth opened then closed a few times before she whispered, "Hello," as though addressing a frightened animal. She'd seen a number of zombies, but this one brought out a sadness like she'd never felt. Perhaps because he still looked so... human. Or perhaps because someone had bothered to protect him.

"Leave him be Miss Long."

Startled Isabelle spun around, her long braid swinging with her to slap her hip. "I'm sorry, I-I didn't-" she stammered, feeling like a bug beneath his steely gaze. Mycroft smiled tightly, "No harm done My Dear. Please, follow me," he looked at the curly haired zombie with a blankness that didn't suit the situation, thin lips firmly pressed together. Isabelle passed him down the stairs, listening for the telltale click of the door closing. Coming to what was the second floor she stumbled to the couch previously vacated by Bastian who had taken wherever Mycroft had first been sleeping. She ducked her head to put it in her still shaking hands. Hot tears dripped on the floor. Crying did not make her feel better, but she could hardly control the emotion.

The even footsteps of Mycroft Holmes accompanied him down the stairs until he was right beside her. Isabelle felt his cold hand on her shoulder and felt something inexplicably relax. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he spoke softly. Isabelle shook her head, still in her hands, "It's nothing I haven't seen before." she, in a manner, lied and told the truth at the same time. She felt his hand slide off of her then a dip of the space just beside her. Mycroft's pale hands collected between his knees and he sighed, "That is what upsets me," he replied. Isabelle sat up straight, wiping her nose with her sleeve and looking at the man she should call a stranger but felt so familiar with. "Was that your brother?" she asked seriously, feeling as though she'd swallowed a golf ball. Mycroft sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. His blank expression faltered horribly, telling her all she needed to know. "My God… I am so, so sorry," she cried, extending a hand that he didn't take.

"I should be helping people right now," Mycroft said quietly, "Instead I am tending to my own deluded whims here. Protecting someone that is already gone."  
Isabelle wanted to say so much, but remained silent instead. She could hear the sound of footsteps as the chained zombie upstairs stumbled back and forth in search of her.

The ensuing silence was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable and Isabelle let it swallow her. The feeling of desperation faded with each breath Mycroft Holmes took. A human. _Alive._ Somehow she, Bastian Kirk, and the well dressed man would find a way to freedom. They would find her sisters, they would find a safe house... "Thank you Miss Long," Mycroft said suddenly, dull grey eyes sparkling with unshed tears that he seemed reluctant to let fall. Isabelle brought her knee up towards her middle as she turned to him. "Mycroft, d-do you need a hug?" she asked seriously. In any other situation (or she any other person) that question would have seemed condescending or rude. Mycroft blinked, "No," he scoffed half-heartedly. "Do you _want_ a hug?" she persisted, a dark lock of chestnut hair falling over her shoulder as she ducked her head. Mycroft opened his mouth then let it close with an audible click of teeth. He said nothing, but his eyes gave her enough of an answer. Isabelle pulled him into her warm embrace, pressing her face into his shoulder. The tall man stiffened beneath her touch but she didn't let up, and eventually he eased into the hug. "Why did you thank me?" she sniffed. A pause, then his hands came up to hold her. "For reminding me of humanities kindness I suppose, as ridiculous as that sounds." he placed a kiss to her hairline unexpectedly, tingles ran down Isabelle's spine. "You too. We're going to get out of this you know, because humanity is worth it and we're fighters or...or something like that."

"You aren't very adept at making motivational speeches are you." he commented wryly. Isabelle couldn't stop herself from pinching him, "I'd like to see you do better! Wait," she pulled away from the well dress man to look him in the eye, "Don't prove me wrong."

Mycroft had clearly shed a tear or two, though the self-assured Cheshire Cat smile suggested otherwise. "Of course, I wouldn't want to embarrass you further," he hummed, leaning back. Isabelle hugged herself, sticking out her tongue at him, "Twat."

"Isabelle," Mycroft nodded his head in cordial reply. They both wound up giggling at that. Isabelle sounded vaguely hysterical, which she probably was, and raucous. Mycroft laughed as though someone had poked a hole in him and air was escaping. She quite liked that.

Only moments later Isabelle could be found asleep, her head lolled against Mycroft's shoulder. He did not sleep that night, but allowed the peace and contentment that her presence offered. Tomorrow if Bastian was well enough they would need to set out. His Country needed a sound omniscient mind. And, if Isabelle just happened to stay with him wherever they arrived at, it would be a bit of a perk as well.

Upstairs, Sherlock groaned as though he could hear his brother's thoughts.

* * *

 **Hey, remember me? No? Hm. Well, Halloween is upon us and I think this fic fits the atmospehere. I know I do this a lot but I'm sorry that it took me so long to write this. I know...I suck. haha  
I hope it doesn't feel rushed. I wanted to put in more zombie goodness, but also...Isabelle isn't a good fighter and I chose her POV for most of it *hack cough*. I'm sorry I zombified Sherlock! DX**

 **A mistake I just noticed is that in "Dragons and She" I used the word "Horde", but when I started writing this I learned that I used the wrong kind! I should have written Hoard for that chapter. So, sorry about that. Someday I'll go back and fix that haha**

 **Please review some more if you like this, you guys are awesome! ;)**


	28. Random Word Drabbles (Part 3)

**Random Word mini fics 150 words or less (Part 3)-**

 **Mean:**

"Jesus Izzy, you look like a scarecrow!"

"Her hair even looks like straw!"

"Maybe it's good mum isn't here, she doesn't have to look at a disappointing accident like you anymore!"

"I don't think that dress is right Izzy, I mean maybe if you weren't so _flat_..."

"Driving somewhere? Do try not to kill anyone."

"Why in the Hell don't you just cut that disgusting ragged mop off already? I mean, mum hated long hair didn't she? Don't you love her?"

"They haven't fired you yet?!"

"Oh yeah, and Happy Birthday or...whatever."

"...Thanks Gloria."

 **Skyward:**

Mycroft came outside to find Isabelle laying in the grass, shivering. Tutting to himself he went back inside and retrieved one of his more heavy duty coats then brought it out with him. Without a word he draped it over her thin frame. "Hi Myc," she said softly, smiling. "Hello My Dear," Mycroft replied fondly. Against his better judgment he sat in the damp grass beside her. "Isn't it beautiful?" Isabelle asked. He decidedly lay flat on his back and looked at the stars, the full moon, the gentle atmosphere. He turned to his wife and observed her awed expression, thin lips parted, a pale blush risen from the cold.

"I could not agree more."

 **Accidental:**

Isabelle stared at what must have been a priceless vase, broken on the ground. Rubbing at a sudden pain in her right temple she considered what Mycroft's reaction would be. Quickly she began scooping up the pieces only to nick her finger on one of the edges. Blood blossomed in the wound and she hissed. Of course Mycroft chose that moment to return home, and upon seeing his wife rushed to her side. He took her hand in his and looked seriously at the cut, "I'm sorry about your vase Myc, it was an accident."  
"And your hand?" he hummed, pulling her towards the downstairs bathroom where a med kit waited. "That was an accident too. God, why did you ever marry me? I'm such a clutz!" she smiled crookedly. Mycroft looked at her with wide eyes as he ran her finger underneath the water, "I swear My Dear, it was an accident!"  
All she could do was laugh.

 **Hopper:**

"Daddy! Daddy I found a 'hopper!"

Mycroft looked up from his book to see Lillian, a grasshopper leaping away from her pointed finger. "Yes," he said slowly, "That's very nice." He turned back to his book. "I'm gonna catch it!" the girl giggled, running and jumping on stubby toddler legs to catch the poor insect. Mycroft spared few glances at Lily who had horribly ruined her new dress with dirt and grass stains. He flipped the page of his book with careful fingers. Lily screeched, which meant that either she'd caught it or it had found a home in her hair. Suddenly his daughter went silent. Only a moment later he found out _why._

Lillian laughed uproariously as her father did a good impression of a grasshopper, jumping out of his chair and desperately trying to rid himself of the insect that had just been dropped on his lap.

 **Keepsake:**

"What's this?" Isabelle pulled a piece of paper out of his sock drawer. Mycroft rushed to her side and took it, looking at the paper deceptively as though it were uninteresting. "Nothing important," he purred. Isabelle pulled out the socks and shut the drawer, "It's not something governmental is it?" she watched her husband fold the paper and fit it into to his pocket. "Hardly," he insisted. Isabelle rolled her eyes, going to the bed to sit and pull on the pilfered socks. She wanted to learn more about the random parchment. Just why had Mycroft rushed to take it from her? Still, she let it slide. If it was really important, he would have told her.

Later Mycroft pulled the paper out and unfolded it to reveal an untidy crayon drawing of a comically overlarge Mycroft Holmes and heroic looking Sherlock Holmes as pirates. Fondly he smiled.

 **Monitor:**

Isabelle looked up from her meal to find her husband watching her with rapt attention. She frowned, but didn't comment on it. In bed she woke up to find his cloudy grey orbs focused yet again on her. With some trouble she rolled over and tried not to worry about it. It was only when she found Mycroft following her about the house that she decided to question her husband's actions. Mycroft cleared his throat embarrassedly, "You told me yesterday that you experienced some pain," he said. Something inside Isabelle melted, "Oh I see," she huffed, "And you wanted to make sure I was ok?  
"In a manner of speaking," he confessed. Isabelle walked to her husband, pregnant belly making it harder for her to lean in for a long kiss. Pulling away she smiled, "I appreciate the care. But I'd prefer it if you stop. It's kind of unnerving."

* * *

 **Thought I'd do something lighthearted and fun. ;)**

 **Ellis Jenkins: Thanks for the review, I'm sorry I've gotten so far behind on my reviews for your story. I have been reading it, but I've been focused on my own projects so it kind of escaped me, y'know? I promise I'll review sometime this week!**

 **Thanks for reading!  
**


	29. Lost

**Lost-**

Isabelle enjoyed long walks through the woods just outside of the village. The air was fresh and smelled of pine, the gentle tinkle of leaves permeated the area. She decided a walk was a good idea after a rather heated phone call between herself and her sister Gloria who, living in London with their sister Maria, seriously needed money. With her hair tied back in a sloppy braid and her clothing consisting of jeans and an overlarge t-shirt, Isabelle set off.  
Her boots were heavy against the soft ground. She mused as a mosquito attempted to attack her bare arm how soon summer was! The thought made her steps slow and her brow furrow. Soon she would be going back "home".

The depths of the wood was a mingling of light and dark, shifting with the sway of the overhead branches. Isabelle leaned against a tall tree and massaged her right temple. Teeth gritted she tried to bring back the happy thoughts the past few months had brought. Seeing old friends, visiting her mother and father's graves more often than she would have been able to had she remained in London. She wiped away a stray tear and sucked in a calming breath. "Pull yourself together Isabelle," she huffed. Getting back to her walk Isabelle looked up towards what she thought must have been a birds nest. It was then that a strange sound caught her ear. Shoulders suddenly stiff she jumped towards a tree as if to hide behind it. Which was probably stupid because she had no idea where the sound was coming from! She strained to hear it again, bottom lip going between her teeth. She didn't breathe for fear it would be too loud… there! It was...crying?

Isabelle rushed in the direction she thought the sound was coming from. With little incident (barring one interaction with a spiky bush) she found the source. A small boy, five or six at the oldest, sat in a small clearing with his arms wrapped around his knees. A few sniffles escaped him, then he seemed to curl further in on himself. Isabelle's heart lurched. "Hello?" she said in a gentle voice, hoping not to startle him. She did. The small boy gasped and flew to his feet, dropping a book into the grass. As if by magic the tears that had been pouring down his chubby face stopped and his expression took on a mostly neutral tone. He swallowed visibly, "Hello," he waved a shy hand. Isabelle approached but was careful not to get too close for fear of chasing him off. "Are you okay?" she asked. He nodded once, "Yes… thank you." Goodness, he was very polite for a toddler!

Isabelle took in the small boy's reddish brown hair, well combed. He was pudgy, pale, and wore a blue sweater vest over a white button up shirt and dark trousers. The small boy took a step back towards the book he'd dropped, Isabelle couldn't make out the title. She gnawed her lip as she thought of something non threatening to say. "My name is Isabelle, what's yours?" She fell onto her haunches so that she didn't tower over the boy quite so much. His brow wrinkled and his upper lip twitched, "Myc-Mycroft," he seemed to have trouble with it which was incredibly adorable. "Mycroft, I like it," she smiled. Mycroft shrugged, not replying to that. Isabelle sighed through her nose, "Are you lost?"  
He shook his head vigorously, "No!" he objected in a forcibly haughty tone that didn't fit his tiny frame at all, "I din' get lost." he ducked his head. Isabelle tried very hard not to laugh, "Alright so- so what are you doing out here?" she edged towards him. Mycroft bent down and picked up his book, swiping dirt and a damp leaf off the back cover with a certain level of reverence. He gestured with it as if to say "see?". The cover revealed Isabelle read "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and smiled wider, "Oh I love that book!"  
Mycroft tucked it beneath his upper arm, "It's stupid," he huffed, long nose wrinkling. Isabelle's eyebrows rose, "Is it?" she chuckled. He wiped at his damp cheek with his sleeve, "Wonka only makes choco- choc...candy, and do- doesn't do anything else. He's stupid." Isabelle wasn't sure what to say to that, so she merely shrugged.

The small boy's mouth formed a half smile which she viewed as a win. Isabelle approached him, "Mycroft, do you know where you live?"  
He looked at his shoes, "Yes… no." he sniffled again, trying very hard to hide that fact. Isabelle dearly hoped it was a quirk of his personality and not something forced into him by his parents. The young woman extended a hand, "If I take you to the village, will you know where your home is?" she persisted. Mycroft let out a slow breath, "If you pointed where the village was I would know."  
So she did. And he pointed in the opposite direction. Isabelle stood to her full height and fully approached the small boy. She bent down and offered him her hand, "Shall we?"  
He hesitated before his chubby hand slid into hers, his grip loose as though he hated the contact. Or he was hoping to have a chance to run should she take him somewhere other than his house. Isabelle didn't tighten her hold for the very reason of setting him at ease.

The walk was peaceful if not a little bit uncomfortable, Isabelle was a little over six foot and bending down to a five year old's level was difficult. He always looked either straight ahead or at his feet, clad in expensive little black shoes. "So, why do you think Willy Wonka is stupid for making Candy?" Isabelle said to fill the silence. He blinked, "'Cause he could be-he could help people. He's really smart but he makes candy," he pouted his lips as he concentrated. He was very well spoken for someone his age, to be honest even reading a book like "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" was rather impressive. "But candy makes people happy, doesn't it? Isn't that worth it?" Isabelle pointed out. "Doesn't save anyone from dying," he returned. The level of darkness behind the so casually stated sentence frightened Isabelle. "No...I suppose it doesn't."  
Feeling completely out of her depth Isabelle turned her hazel gaze back to the world around her rather than the cynical toddler beside her.

"Ah, y-you know I bet Willy Wonka could build a candy that cures all sorts of illnesses!" Isabelle declared suddenly, making the boy jump. "God, sorry," she added, giving his hand a gentle squeeze to calm his suddenly jumpy nerves. Mycroft looked up at her with intelligent eyes, "I s'pose… an' an' he's really powerful 'cause he can turn people into blueberries!" It suddenly sounded as though he was gushing over the book instead of agreeing with her. Isabelle didn't mind, a warm smile stretching across her freckled face. "I read this three times already, my favorite part is when they see the cho- the first room! An' when Mike Teavee becomes tiny!" he looked animated and his pace quickened so Isabelle didn't have to shuffle her feet to keep pace with him.  
"D'you like to read?"  
The question felt out of left field and Isabelle had to take a moment to answer. The truth was that she didn't read very much at all. She much preferred the out of doors with all the sights and TV which was probably an embarrassing confession to make even if she was talking to a child. "Sometimes," she decided, "I really liked books when I was a kid. Like Hop on Pop," she chuckled to herself. Mycroft scoffed, "You should try fox in socks!"

The conversation followed that thread for quite a while until a house came into view. It stood two stories in the middle of a field, a few trees framing the picture. Mycroft looked much more relaxed as the two of them made their way to the front door. Isabelle rang the doorbell. Mycroft rang it twice more. The door opened and a kindly looking blonde woman stepped out. Her eyes widened, "Oh Mycie!" she cried, "Where were you I was so worried! We were just about to call the police!" the small boy cringed under the onslaught of sudden kisses and hugs his mother bestowed upon his ample cheeks. "Mummy!" he whined, "I was reading."  
"Oh dear," she ushered her son into the house with a light swat on his behind, "Go on and have your father make you some hot chocolate alright? I'll talk to your friend." At the prospect of getting the hot beverage Mycroft smiled, "Yes Mummy. Bye Isabelle!" he waved shyly and went further into the house out of view. Isabelle waved back.  
Mrs. um…. Mycroft's mother stepped out and closed the door behind her, "I want to thank you for bringing my boy back."  
"I-it was was no trouble," Isabelle's face reddened, finding talking to an adult much harder than talking to a child. "It's my fault really," the older woman continued, "I told him he should go out and play like other children, I look away for five minutes and suddenly he's disappeared! That boy needs to learn some responsibility," she shook her head ruefully, though Isabelle could tell she didn't mean it.  
"He's really a- a wonderful little boy," she said, blowing a strand of chestnut hair away from her face, "and very smart." The beam of pride was enough to tell her that Mycroft's mother was on the level.

"Oh, how rude of me. Would you like to come in?" The woman offered politely, "I'm sure Myc would appreciate it."  
Isabelle felt sorely tempted to accept the offer. The promise of being around Mycroft some more was a hard thing to pass up. Still, she thought it best that she avoid growing too attached. She _was_ leaving soon after all. "I-I shouldn't. But uh, thank you."  
Mycroft's mother offered an all knowing sort of smile, "Alright. But if you ever change your mind, you know where we are," she winked. Goodbyes shared Isabelle walked away from the house and took up a near dance as she did so, humming idly to herself.

It was good to have a friend.

* * *

 **Just something cute I wrote in one sitting. I read through it once but I bet it's full of mistakes so...sorry about that haha!**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing and just... ah, you're all great! ;)**


	30. Delaying the Inevitable

**Delaying the Inevitable (Warnings: Death- very literally-, talk of illness and emotions therein)-**

Isabelle had no idea when she'd fallen asleep. The lights were dim but not completely off, the steady beep of a heart monitor both relaxing her and driving her further into the tension of the situation. With a grunt she lifted her head from the bed in front of her, hazel gaze fixed on the blanket and the leg beneath it she'd used as a pillow. Idly she wondered why she hadn't been kicked out yet, a hand rubbing at her sore neck. Bottom lip going between her teeth she allowed herself to look properly at the bedridden patient. Lillian Long. She looked old and tired, her short blonde hair loose from its usual ponytail and splayed around her pale face. Isabelle could see herself and her siblings in that face, a small nose, a tall forehead, thin lips. She swallowed, her hand reaching out and consuming her mother's much smaller one. Like Maria and Gloria, Lillian was short of stature and seemed almost a child in her hospital gown and big bed.

Isabelle Long couldn't imagine a life without her mother. The woman was her whole world! How...how could she do this? Isabelle fought back tears, something she'd been doing every day for the past month. Her mother was by all means a lost cause, the Doctors were merely waiting for it to end. Therapy, medication, nothing. Lillian had finally waved it all off, as though she'd given up. Her hair had grown back, and her consciousness had started to fade.  
Suddenly, a shadow passed over both the bed and its occupant. Isabelle looked up with a dark look.

"Don't."

The stranger looked mildly surprised, one incredulous eyebrow raised. Isabelle clung to her mother's hand tighter, "You can't take her!"  
Death hummed. He was a tall man, pale and long nosed. There was a certain level of power behind his soulless grey eyes, meaning her protests could (and probably would) be ignored and there was _nothing else_ she could possibly do. "Fascinating," hummed the man, balancing a small leather notebook in perfect hand. Isabelle could have sworn it hadn't been there before! "I haven't been seen in quite some time," he sniffed and looked at the scrappy pages in his book, "Lillian Eleanor Long, aged forty two, survived by three daughters and one sister...estranged," he read out loud. Isabelle hissed, "Shut up," she whispered to her paled knuckles. The man merely rolled his eyes, "It is her time."  
"No it isn't!" Isabelle stood up, cold filling her body and making her shiver, "She-she's not ready yet. I can't... " she rubbed one eye tiredly, "Please don't take her from me. Please. I love her so much."  
The man, Death, snapped his book shut and it disappeared. Suddenly he was pointing at her with the tip of an umbrella that he must have also conjured from thin air, "Who lives or dies is not for you to decide Miss Long," he explained. "Why is it yours?" Isabelle persisted, "I- I just need a day. Please," she begged. The man hesitated, letting his umbrella fall to his side so he could lean on it. He cut quite a handsome figure in his three piece suit with a red patterned tie tucked into his dark waistcoat. There was something in his gaze almost akin to sympathy, but was more like pity. Finally he tutted like someone finding a small discrepancy in their morning papers. "I will give you one more day."

Just like that, he disappeared. Isabelle sat down with a thump, completely breathless. She'd just won her mother twenty four more hours of life. Smiling to herself she brushed blonde hairs away from her mother's forehead, planting a soft kiss on her cold brow. "I love you mum."

* * *

The following day Isabelle found herself pleading with Maria and Gloria to visit their mother in the hospital. "Jesus Izzy," Gloria snarled, "We will go when we're ready, ok? Just shut up and leave me alone." Maria looked less decisive but under her twin sister's glare she eventually agreed with her. Isabelle tried to, without spilling the beans about the night before, tell them that there was little time left! They needed to go visit their mother or they might lose the chance. Still, they refused. Isabelle liked to believe she saw some sadness in their eyes, and she did, but there was also a hardness there. They hated her, they hated their mother in the hospital, they hated everything about the whole situation! So, Isabelle went to work, walked her way through the motions, then went to visit her mother.

"Hello darling," Lillian greeted, looking up from a book in her lap. Isabelle smiled, setting aside her bag and rushing forwards to embrace her mother. "Hi mum, sorry I'm late," she apologized quickly. Lillian waved a dismissive hand, "Oh it's fine sweets. I was fully immersed in this anyhow," she waved the book up then let it plop back down on her lap. "Did you sleep well last night mum?" Isabelle asked, pulling a chair towards the edge of the bed. Her mother nodded, though an unknowing crease formed between her brows, "I had such an odd dream, but I guess I must have," she leaned back against her pillow. She looked old and worn, much more than she had yesterday, like someone had taken some of the stuffing out of her. _She's going to die tonight_ Isabelle's mind supplied, eager to upset her.  
As Lillian Long went on about an attractive doctor she saw that morning, Isabelle knew what she had to do. She had to stay and wait for Death's return.

Night arrived yet again. Isabelle could not fathom why she was allowed to that time, and wondered if perhaps Death himself had some part in it- like he didn't want to be interrupted so he kept all others at bay. Silently she waited, body tensed and prepared. She had no idea what she would say to the man, she only knew that she had to save her mother. Like magic (perhaps it was) Death stood in the corner of the room, walking evenly towards the hospital bed. "Hi," Isabelle greeted with an awkward wave. The man looked slightly annoyed to see her, "Mmm, yes. Hello," he replied tersely. He searched her with his grey eyed gaze, "Why do I get the feeling you aren't here to hold your mother's hand during her inevitable departure?" he crossed his arms. Isabelle tried to smile but found the action hard, "Because I'm not." she mumbled. The man didn't look pleased, but yet again she could see a softness hidden behind it all. "Miss Long, I understand why this might upset you, but every human must die. This is the way of things," he waved a hand like a fluttering butterfly.  
Isabelle sucked in a calming breath, rising to her feet, "I know, I just, I need her to stay one more day. Maria and Gloria they- they haven't come to visit her yet. I think if I have enough time I can convince them…" she swallowed a lump in her throat. "I see," Death replied.

For the longest time there was nothing but silence, the beep of the heart monitor and Isabelle's labored breathing. "I see your mother enjoys the classics," Death finally spoke, leaning towards Lillian to remove the abandoned book from the edge of the bed. He traced a finger down the worn cover. The reverence in his touch surprised the young woman, "I- yeah she is," she said softly, "Only the books though. She hates classics on TV."  
"And you?" the man persisted, flipping a few pages of the book and seeming to read from it before he placed it gently back where he'd found it. Isabelle shrugged, "I don't read much." The man exhaled, "Shame. Might I suggest though that you rethink your position on the matter?" he tilted his head just the slightest bit to the right. Isabelle couldn't help but chuckle, weak as it was, "Ok, I'll try."  
Death looked pleased, "Very good."

* * *

"Do you eat?"

Mycroft looked up from his notebook to see Isabelle waiting for him. Silently he cursed, as much as he almost enjoyed the mortal's presence. She was somewhere in her twenties, tall and thin and average. She had a too tall forehead, a tiny nose, and she was covered in freckles. It took the man a moment to understand the question, and even when he did he didn't really have an answer. "Only... you touched my mother's book yesterday and I was just wondering," her curious hazel eyes were fixed on him, a gentle smile playing at her thin lips. Death poked his tongue against the inside of his left cheek, "I'm not entirely sure. I don't feel hunger," he explained, "But I imagine I could eat if I wanted to."  
Isabelle nodded, a single bob of her head, "Good. So I can bribe you," she reached under her mother's bed and retrieved a small, brown, paper bag. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Of course she was trying to prolong Lillian Eleanor Long's life to yet another day. Mentally he sighed, knowing deep down that he would be giving in yet again. He _had_ been seen before, and others had begged and pleaded for him to leave their family member or best friend alone, and still he had done the deed that needed to be done. What was so different about this woman that his strong will had abandoned him?

Isabelle removed from the paper bag a cinnamon bun of some sort, dripping with icing sugar. She set it down on a napkin also procured from the depths of her mysterious bag. Then, she also brought out a blueberry muffin and finally a plastic fork. "I got these from- from my work," she said, stumbling over her speech nervously. Mycroft could see a blush creeping across her thin features, ready to overtake her. Silently he approached her, the sudden smell of baked goods filling his nostrils and causing him to salivate (an odd sensation to be sure). At that moment he wished he could experience the hunger that humans did, instead there was a silent nothing inside of him. With careful hands he pulled over another chair so that he sat near Isabelle. "I don't know which one you want," she coughed into her fist. Mycroft surveyed the two, both looked equally delicious. "How about we share, half of each," he decided. The young woman smiled even brighter, carefully slicing at the muffing with the side of her fork. It was rather ineffective but she still managed to have made four sloppy pieces of both. She offered the blueberry muffin to him and Mycroft offered a polite thank you before biting into it. His eyes widened, "Dear Lord," he practically purred with satisfaction, "That is...quite good."  
Isabelle covered her mouth, a few crumbs falling from her own food and littering her lap. "Isn't it?" she laughed, the sound foreign and just plain weird to his ears, though he couldn't help but join in with his own breathy sort of chuckle. Suddenly, her hand was on his knee and she was looking into his eyes. Mycroft lost all breath, unused to human contact he nearly let panic overtake him. "I need her one more day. Please."

He'd agreed.

Someday Lillian Eleanor Long would need to die, but today was not that day.

* * *

Three more times Isabelle met Death, each time she had decided to bring a baked good. He seemed quite pleased with that development. Besides that, the strange creature had begun to talk to her. Isabelle listened with rapt attention as he told her about someone he'd taken to the "other world" whatever that may be. She'd tried once to ask him if there was a Heaven or a Hell, but he'd remained tight lipped on the subject. Ah well, she didn't mind. On the second day, Isabelle found herself really looking at the man. There was a sallow sadness about him, and yet a light behind his intelligent eyes. "Do you ever hate your job?" she asked after a long silence between them. Her mother had stirred, causing the two to stop their conversation for a moment. She looked so much worse than she had days before, thin and tired, her already pale face a sickly color. Death looked thoughtfully at his long pale fingers which he'd brought together on his pinstriped lap, "I feel...nothing," he said quietly, "It must be done. If I stopped to think about all of this, stopped to _feel_ ," he wrinkled his nose at the word, "I might become like you."  
There was an insult in there, Isabelle could feel it. The anger behind his words telling her he was tired of keeping Lillian Long alive. Yet when he looked up at her his eyes were almost watery, "I must go Miss Long," he stood up and disappeared.

The following day it had been as though nothing had happened. Isabelle felt her heart lurch in her chest when he gave her mother a long, calculating look, then he settled into his seat. "Miss Long, you have two siblings have you not?" the man inquired pleasantly. Isabelle tried not to show any emotion in response to that question, "Yes. Maria and Gloria, they're uh, twins," she replied. Death looked as though he wanted to say something but held back, fingertips tapping a rhythm on the arm of his chair. Isabelle wanted to ask if he had any family, but thought it might have been kind of a stupid question. He was Death! Of course he didn't have any family. "You're very kind," she said, "for being here, I mean."  
The man blinked, "Ah." he said simply, looking embarrassed, "Thank you My Dear."

It was on the fourth day when things suddenly changed. Isabelle found Mycroft already there during her regular visit to her mother, looming over the bed like a shadow. His eyes were hollow and he didn't stop to look at her even when she waved a hand in front of his face. "Isabelle, what are you doing?" Lillian laughed, blue eyes on her daughter. The younger woman stopped and muttered something unintelligible to save herself. Even if she had tried, she was a terrible liar. Isabelle stayed with her still sickly looking mother (her hands were all blue veins and lumpy knuckles) until midnight came around again. Mycroft, who had been standing like a statue the entire time, suddenly came back to life and exhaled slowly. Isabelle hugged herself, "Are you ok?" she asked. The man nodded once, "I have been neglecting my duties and it is taking its toll."

Isabelle tried not to be freaked out by that, "I brought you another cinnamon bun, I know those are your favorite," she indicated a bag sitting at her feet.

"Isabelle," Death said stiffly. She ignored him. "I tried to get a blueberry muffin but we were sold out," she dismissed.  
"Isabelle, there is something we need to discuss-"  
"Is there?" Isabelle spat, bitterness filling her. She knew what he wanted to say, but no, she would convince him to leave it another day. Her sisters still hadn't visited their mother, they needed to see her before she died! "You are being selfish," The tall man replied in a dark voice, "I have stalled as long as I can but this truly is testing the limits of fate," he placed a hand on his narrow hip. Isabelle shook her head, "You can't take her," she nearly shouted, "She's not ready yet!" The man came around the bed and stood about a foot away, "She is, just look at her. You need to let go My Dear. I promise you it will be painless."  
Isabelle shook her head again, tears spilling, "No, don't. I won't let you I- please!"

Death ignored her, leaning over to Lillian Long and placing a hand on her forehead. He closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Isabelle tried to pull him away but her hands went right through his shoulder. Suddenly the heart monitor became one steady tone and Lillian passed away. Hot tears trailed their way down Isabelle's thin face, burning her eyes and expelling all the pent up emotion she had been holding in. "How could you?" she sobbed, "You monster!" she threw a punch at Death's arm and this time it hit rather than going through. The man didn't seemed swayed by it, here merely turned to her. "Isabelle, I did what had to be done."  
"I don't care! You could have let me say goodbye!" Isabelle wiped furiously at her eyes with her sleeve. Soon doctors and nurses would be coming in, and Isabelle would have to leave. She hated this. She wanted her mum back! Without warning the young crying woman found herself in warm embrace, Mycroft's arm surrounding her. Isabelle buried her face in his shoulder, clinging to the front of his suit with shaking hands. "It's alright My Dear. It's alright." he soothed, "Life for you goes on."

* * *

Isabelle thought she would never see Death again after that day, but then he entered the Cafe where she worked one warm spring day, umbrella tapping on the floor alongside the click of his expensive shoes. Isabelle went pale, "Who-?"  
"No one My Dear, don't worry," he assured, "I merely came to...visit," he looked uncomfortable about the fact. Isabelle smiled crookedly, "I'm glad," she admitted. The man approached the counter and eyed the display, "How are you holding up, if you don't mind my asking?" he didn't look at her. Somehow, Isabelle thought he already knew how her life had gone. Still she shrugged, "I'm taking it one day at a time. I moved out our flat a-and I'm just ok... ok?" she flattened her hands on the counter. Death nodded, "To be expected." as though she had something entirely different. Ug, how frustrating. The two stood there, looking at each other for longer than was necessary. Isabelle couldn't help but enjoy the silence, as though there was nothing that needed to be said. They already knew.

"Do you have a name?"

The man looked taken aback, "Oh. Yes. Mycroft Holmes," he extended a hand and Isabelle laughed as she took it and shook it once, firmly.

"A pleasure, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

 **Isabelle is probably somewhere in her twenties here, in the original she was fifteen when her mother died but I thought it would be better if she was closer to Mycroft's erm...age. I really don't know if he ages at all, or dies.**

 **So it's about two to three days until Christmas. What I need is a good idea for a Christmas themed chapter in this fic! I'm drawing a major blank here. I hope to get it out, if not on Christmas Eve, then on the day itself. I just need ideas ;p**

 **What did you think? Leave a review and let me know! Criticism is welcome! XD**


	31. Your Family

p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongYour Family (Regular ALWTH world, just a note: words underlined are meant to be crossed out.)-/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strong*Spelling errors corrected by Mycroft Holmes*/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongName:/strong Lillian Rosalie Sophia Holmes/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongAge: /strongSix/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongFather: /strongMycroft H.A. Holmes (he won't tell me what H.A means, span style="max-height: 999999px; text-decoration-line: underline;"Uncle Sherlock says it means hard arse/span)/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongMother: /strongIsabelle Lillian Long (Dead)/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongBrother(s):/strong Alistair M. Holmes/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongSister(s): /strongNone/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongGrandparents: /strongGrandma Linda and Grandpa Christopher/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongAunts: /strongAunt Gloria and Aunt Maria (I only met them three times)/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongUncles:/strong Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongCousin(s): /strongCousin Nero, though Daddy says he's not really a cousin./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongOther: /strongUncle John is not really my Uncle, Daddy says I should stop calling him that. Uncle Sherlock says I should keep doing it. Uncle John just laughs./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongWhere does your Family live?:/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"My Daddy and me and Alistair live in England in a big house just outside of London. He says I can't put an address but that's ok because I don't know what our address is. Uncle Sherlock lives at 221B Baker Street which is inside of London with Uncle John./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongWhat does your Family like to do?:/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"Daddy likes to play deductions with Uncle Sherlock. Uncle Sherlock likes to go catch bad murderers with Uncle John and also smoke which smells gross. Alistair likes to read. I like to climb trees and pretend I'm a guy like Uncle Sherlock that catches murderers and thieves and stuff, sometimes I get to go with Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John but that makes Daddy angry and I get grounded. My Daddy doesn't like to do anything normal people do, that's what Uncle John says. He says that families usually go out to the park and swing on swings and get ice cream (I want ice cream!) and they hug and kiss each other. Daddy says Uncle John is one to talk cause he and his sister are "estranged". I don't know what that means, but I hugged Uncle John because I don't want him to be unhappy, but then that made Daddy unhappy and he doesn't like hugs./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongDescribe your Parents:/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"Daddy is tall and wears suits. He has brown hair and a nose like mine which is really big. His eyes are grey like mine too. My Daddy is really smart but also annoying because he makes me go to bed at eight thirty and he won't let me skip maths which is horrible. span style="max-height: 999999px; text-decoration-line: underline;"Uncle Sherlock says that Daddy has a stick up his arse,/span which I thought was very funny even though I don't get it, I just like the picture it gave me in my /Daddy makes really great food though, and he reads to me at bedtime sometimes. He gives me a lot of the things that I ask for like dresses and toys and stuff. My Daddy also makes sure that I'm very very very safe, though I don't like being safe much./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"I don't know what my Mum was like because she died soon after I was born. Daddy says she was tall and had brown hair and freckles and she was very nice. He says that I am not very much like her, I don't mind. Uncle John asked me if I wondered about her but I don't. I don't really care because I never knew her, but that made Uncle John kind of sad when I said so. I hugged him again./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongDescribe your Siblings:/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"Alistair is ten years older than me. Daddy says he was adopted by him and Mum before I was born. Alistair is a lot like Daddy, he tells me what to do and reads a lot. He says if I don't do schoolwork than I won't be using my full potential. I told him he was a poop head. Alistair wants to be in Government like Daddy which I think is boring and stupid, but I guess it makes him happy./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongAny other things about your Family:/strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"My family is really great! I don't like it when Daddy comes home sad sometimes and he won't talk to me or anything, and when Uncle Sherlock becomes angry and he throws things or shouts. But I really like them anyways because they look out for me and they are really fun! Sometimes around my family I feel kind of stupid and I don't like that but I don't like school stuff so I guess I'm /I asked Daddy for ice cream yesterday and he got me some! chocolate which is the best flavor! Daddy got mint and Alistair got vanilla. Sometimes I get to stay with Uncle Sherlock and he forgets to feed me at the right times, Daddy says I need to scream at him when he does that. Uncle Sherlock doesn't like that very /Sometimes I get to say with Grandma and Grandpa when Daddy says important things are happening. Grandma taught me how to make bread and Grandpa showed me how to make a newspaper hat! Grandma and Grandpa are also silly and they make fun of each other, but not in a mean /I don't get to see my Aunts very much at all. Daddy says it is because they are stupid. I remember they were very nice to me when I saw them, though they kept saying not nice things about Daddy. I think they are really weird./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"I think that's all. My family is probably better than other people's and that makes them jealous and that's why they say mean things. I don't really care about them and their problems because Daddy says they are goldfish./p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strong-Lily/strong/p  
hr style="margin: 5px 0px; border: 0px; background: -webkit-gradient(linear, 0% 100%, 100% 100%, from(#ffffff), color-stop(0.1, #cbcbcb), color-stop(0.9, #cbcbcb), to(#ffffff)) #cbcbcb; color: #000000; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;" noshade="noshade" size="1" /  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongThis format is stolen from "SomewhereBeyondReality" and it was for the show FRIENDS, if you are a fan of FRIENDS (I like it well enough to read fanfic about it) and especially Mondler than I would recommend checking their stuff out./strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongI hope this wasn't too stupid, it was fun to write at the very least. XDbr /strongstrongMycroft editing the spelling was to save me from having to deal with you know...purposefully misspelling things. I hate doing that./strong/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px; font-family: Verdana, Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13px;"strongIs anyone else excited for the new episode of Season 4 tomorrow? I am! *does happy dance* I hope there is a ton of Mycroft Holmes related stuff in there or I will be very unhappy though Lol/strong/p 


	32. Exercising Attachment

**Exercising attachment (Regular ALWTH world set somewhere after the chapter "Blackest of Moods" and before "Parties and Panic Attacks" though reading those chapters is not a requirement)-**

Isabelle returned early from work rather worn out. For some bothersome reason she hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep the night before and it had done a number on her delicate constitution. Using the key Mycroft had given her Isabelle entered the large mansion she could almost call home. Inside she was met with silence, unwelcoming silence. Mycroft wouldn't be home yet, she mused to herself, which meant she would be alone until _who knows when_. Biting her bottom lip she walked towards the nearest room, the kitchen. Perusal of the fridge offered very little in terms of anything she wanted to eat so she shoved the door closed again and started towards the stairs where "her" room waited for her. She stopped for a moment at Mycroft's bedroom door, the "Knock before entry" sign hanging perfectly off the doorknob. With a smug quirk of her thin lips she pulled at one end of the piece of wood, making it crooked and otherwise unbearable to the borderline OCD Mycroft Holmes. Feeling stupidly pleased with herself she started towards her room again, when a strange sound caught her ear. A muffled string of thumps that didn't sound natural to anything she'd ever seen in the house. Body tensed she attempted to locate the odd sound.  
There was a possibility that the sound was something like Sherlock breaking in through a window or Bastian Kirk outside working on his car, but the closer she got to the end of the upstairs hallway and into undiscovered territory the more she decided those two couldn't be it.

The first thing she noticed in this uncharted part of the mansion was that there was a suit of armor. Just...armor. While it wasn't necessarily unusual in Mycroft's residence it took her by surprise, the way it stood there like a sentinel, waiting to attack. Continuing to gnaw on her lower lip Isabelle focused her gaze straight ahead and to a sight far more fascinating than the armor! Mycroft Holmes. As it turned out the steady thumps had been caused by repeated footsteps on the belt of a treadmill, the man himself dressed in clothes more fitting for exercise. Isabelle stared for far too long, her mouth suddenly stuck open. Ever since the game of Operation she had played with the unwell man, Isabelle had realized she felt so much more for him than what was at all proper. After all, she had broken up with him. But waking up so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, the smell of peppermint and maybe the faintest touch of bleach, it was all so perfect. Even before that she'd kissed him, though that had been out of joy that he was still alive after a "he's in the hospital" scare.  
Isabelle bunched up a handful of her skirt, trying not to feel weird ogling the man before her, every subtle curve of his tall frame that his suits normally hid, the sweat formed on his pale face. Good Lord he had some nice legs!

Suddenly the thumping stopped and Mycroft jumped off the treadmill, breathing heavily. He moved to grab a dishtowel of some sort to wipe the sweat off his forehead when grey eyes met Isabelle's. Just as the young woman had never seen him in such informal attire, Isabelle had never seen Mycroft blush the crimson color he did at that moment. Mouth moving several times like a fish, the man seemed lost for words. "Sorry," was all Isabelle could think to say, her own blush creeping across her freckled features. It was clear she wasn't meant to see him like this. Even in his silken button up pajamas Mycroft had seemed more put together and less… naked. With that thought she nearly choked on her own saliva. Her own mind was taunting her now! For the longest time the two merely stared at each other, both too embarrassed to say anything. Finally though, Mycroft found his mask and placed it on. "You're home early My Dear," he greeted, crossing his arms as though that would help at all. He had on a smile that didn't suit him, completely fake. Isabelle nodded, "Mrs. Ross she- she uh, sent me home because I was really tired," she stumbled awkwardly to reply.  
Mycroft pursed his lips, "Is there...something you wanted?" he quirked one eyebrow questioningly. Did she want anything from him? Well, maybe a few things that she would _never_ admit to herself in that moment, but otherwise it seemed ludicrous that she was still standing there- as still as a statue.

"What uh… what were you doing?" the young woman asked stupidly. Mycroft snorted inelegantly, "What do you think?" he asked, still smiling dishonestly. Isabelle shrugged, "I-I mean why?" she seemed to be asking herself just as much as she was him. Of course she'd known about the diet, she'd have to be stupid not to see it, but Mycroft Holmes by description was the laziest man she had ever known! He took any opportunity to settle into a chair, forcing you down to his level to form any sort of conversation. Isabelle rarely minded, but it did strike her as odd considering his wild brother. "I would have that just as obvious," the man scoffed, uncrossing his arms to pick up a glass of untouched orange juice. He sipped it, one hand pulling down the edge of his shirt even though he didn't need to. Isabelle frowned, "Is it?"  
The man rolled his eyes, "Don't bother to spare my feelings Miss Long." True to character he sat himself down in an ugly green chair, one leg crossing over the other. Isabelle approached him, "I'm not sparing anything," she huffed, "Why would I?"  
"Because you're an annoyingly nice person," he replied, this time offering a real smile, the corners of his mouth tilted ever so slightly upwards. Isabelle chuckled, "I'm not," she looked at the treadmill, finding it the only thing she could focus on that wasn't Mycroft, "You look...nice," was all she could think to add. "Nice?" Mycroft let out a breathy laugh that shifted his rounded shoulders. Isabelle nodded, feeling like an idiot.

"Well… thank you."

Startled she looked at the seated gentleman, he held out his glass as if to clink it against another and then drank from it. Isabelle blushed, "You're uh- you're welcome."  
Mycroft set aside his juice, elegant fingers twining together over his knee, "To tell the truth, this was partly due to the illness, I have been even more inactive than usual," he smirked. That was true, but it had been under the Doctor's orders. The man had overworked himself to the point of collapse! "I've been feeling kind of cooped up myself," Isabelle replied honestly, "At home I have nothing to do so I sit and read, at work I need to type so I sit." She sighed an exasperated breath, "And then of course I have to look after you," she pretended to complain. Mycroft stood up in one swift movement, "Is this because I beat you at every round of Operation?" he replied smugly, "I could go easy on you if you want me to."  
"Ug, you're such a jerk," Isabelle snorted. They shared a stilted sort of laugh with each other, Mycroft seeming far more at ease. That was good, the man had no reason to be embarrassed! Especially around Isabelle, who found it very hard to judge him even when he reached the heavier side. "You know I used to take a walks through the city at least twice a week, it made me feel better. I haven't had the chance out here," she gestured to the large window as if it encapsulated the entire building and outdoors. Mycroft again raised an incredulous eyebrow, "And?" Isabelle approached him, extending a hand to touch his arm. He visibly tensed beneath her grip, swallowing thickly. Sometimes it was hard to remember just how uncomfortable he was with touch. She let her hand slide off, " _And_ I was hoping you'd join me sometimes." Mycroft looked blankly at her for longer than it seemed necessary then he smiled a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes pleasantly. "That sounds horrible," he said, but before Isabelle could look dejected he added, "But I gladly take you up on your offer."

And thus it was that the following day Isabelle found herself walking through the countryside with Mycroft (bedecked in a three piece suit this time), talking about the weather and the state of Somalia (which was...bad, apparently?) until both became tired. It was wonderful.

* * *

 **I have no idea why I wrote this. I sat down to work on something else but hit a block so instead this popped out of my brain. I don't know if I like it or hate it. Anyways, I felt like writing something fluffy and show Isabelle being more attracted to Mycroft in a different way than what I normally bring up *shrug***

 **Did you guys see the first episode of series 4? WOW. I will admit I had a lot of troubles with it that I won't go into here, but the Mycroft parts were awesome so all is forgiven Lol (If anyone wants to talk about it btw, I wouldn't be adverse to PM's ;)**


	33. Normal

**Normal (Regular ALWTH with no Lillian or Alistair. Some spoilers for: The Lying Detective in regards to Mycroft. Some swearing.)-**

Mycroft returned home with a weary, overly put upon sigh. He ran pale fingers through his dark hair as he started towards the main stairs. He didn't even bother to stop at the kitchen where his empty fridge stood tauntingly. Up the stairs and down the hall a bit he came to his bedroom, his hand coming down to turn the knob and allow him access to his safe haven. The smell of calming vanilla filled his senses and he let out another, slightly more contented, exhale. Mycroft approached the closet door, slid it open, then toed his shoes off into the empty space at the bottom. With one smooth motion he also removed his jacket and placed it delicately on a hanger. It would of course need washing, he just didn't have the time nor the energy to do so. The tall gentleman slid the door closed, his tongue going between his teeth as something rather confusing hit him. Like a shockwave or a jolt, that moment when you zap yourself on something metal.

"You cheated on me."

Mycroft's eyes slid closed, his throat feeling as though someone had lodged a golf ball down it. "I didn't. _You're dead_ ," he replied coolly as he turned to face the new person. Isabelle sat on the bed, her legs tucked up underneath her. She wore her nightgown, long chestnut hair loose over her shoulders and down her back. "If it isn't cheating then why am I here?" she asked with a coy sort of smile, one pale slightly freckled hand coming up to tuck a lock of her hair behind an ear to little success. "My brother slipped something into my drink?" Mycroft hummed, slowly approaching the deceased woman. His mind was really quite good, she looked perfectly real, solid...not dead. Isabelle smiled softly, "He didn't. You know that."  
"Alright then, I cheated on you, what-"  
Isabelle stopped him with a raised hand, "I'm sorry," he brow furrowed and she stared at the blanket beneath her, "You didn't cheat. I've been dead for ten years."  
"Precisely," Mycroft said with a snort, crossing his arms. But then… if he'd just had this revelation, why was Isabelle still there? Shouldn't this have disposed of his hallucination? "I-I think you feel guilty though."

Mycroft rubbed at one temple exasperatedly, a hiss passing his clenched teeth before he sought to continue. "Why in the Hell do I feel guilty Isabelle? Tell me."

Isabelle stood up just then, a movement almost unreal in its smoothness. She approached him, looking serious. "You don't feel guilty because you betrayed me… I think you feel guilty because you betrayed yourself."  
With that statement she reached out to touch his cheek, Mycroft swatted it away as though it was a fly buzzing around his ear. "What are you talking about?" he chuckled coldly, "Is this like the story of Ebenezer Scrooge? Are you going to show me the error of my ways?" he shook his head, sarcasm dripping from the silver spoon in his mouth. Isabelle hugged herself, "Mycroft I need you to understand. You- you don't like sex!" it was a testament to the state of his mind, and the fact that this _wasn't_ Isabelle that she didn't blush or look embarrassed by the exclamation, "You expect me to believe that you slept with Lady Smallwood because you wanted to? Because you felt the _passion_?" she mocked, her face an angry red. Mycroft had missed her anger just as much as her joy and her sorrow, those feelings he couldn't control and didn't want to… not anymore. "Did you enjoy it?" Isabelle asked after a long pause. "No. Dull." he supplied without thought.  
"So why did you do it?"  
"That's what normal people do Isabelle, they have sex!" Mycroft scoffed, starting towards his side of the bed, he never crossed over anymore in his sleep. He never used to have that much control in his dreams. "Is this because Mrs. Hudson called you a reptile?" Isabelle demanded, standing on her side, fists connecting with the mattress so that she stood bent over. Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I am not swayed-"  
"Because you realized you don't understand your baby brother as well as you thought?" Isabelle's expression suddenly softened, "You want to be like other people? You like Smallwood so you use her just like she used you?" Mycroft's jaw tensed in retaliation, "Of course not."  
"Mycroft, when we were married I knew that you didn't want to have an overly physical relationship. I was ok with that, I had you. But now? You slept with someone who _wasn't your wife_ (thank you very much) and you are seriously considering doing it again. Don't think I missed that card hidden in your pocket. Why?" She reached across the open space between them and this time Mycroft accepted the gesture, feeling the odd sensation of a touch that wasn't real. "Isabelle…" he muttered, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, "I don't know. I honestly, _do not_ know."

He was being honest too, frustrating as that was.

Isabelle tightened her grip, "Mycroft, I know that things are… real, right now. You called your sister recently, your brother has been locked in his flat and then he nearly got himself killed to stop whoever that was," she waved her free hand, looking more than a little bit crazy. God he missed her. "But doing something like this? It isn't you. It isn't what defines you. It isn't what defines anybody, and I won't have you doing this just to appear normal. Ok? If you love her or really do feel those… _things_ , than I don't mind, do what you want. _But I know you don't._ "  
Acting on impulse Mycroft bent down and kissed a freckle near her knuckle, "I understand." he said plainly, "You know me better than anyone My Dear. I understand."  
Isabelle smiled brightly, "Good. I love you."

"Yes."

She was gone. Mycroft stared at the empty space where Isabelle's image had been standing, his heart beating rapidly in his chest and his lungs refusing to bring in nearly enough air. Silently he reached into his pants pocket and retrieved Lady Smallwood's card, staring at the numbers as though they might have all the answers.

* * *

 ***Edited. Ok, morning now. I deleted the rant, it felt good to get it off my chest *exhales slowly*, now I'll just let this fic speak for itself. XD**

 **Thanks to Ellis Jenkins for yet another review!**


	34. Work Invasion (Part 2)

**Work invasion (Part 2)-**

He was running for his life! His lives… His one life which would later become _another_ life if he didn't run faster! Barely aware of the wheezing breaths he took Mycroft turned a corner nearly knocking into a goldfi-bystander. Uttering no apologies he continued his escape. Past the pounding of his expensive shoes on concrete he could hear the steady click of the creature's thirteen feet. Thankfully (or the opposite depending upon who you asked) the beast was invisible so no one could see its march nor the large metal weapon in its three fingered hands.

His toe caught a crack in the sidewalk and he fell against a building, a sharp pain in his ribs increasing. As a Time Lord he should have been able to run further without this much trouble. There was something weaker about this body, something more tired and lost. Mycroft didn't dare think on it, unwilling to analyze himself he shoved himself away from the wall and continued his run.

 _*BOOM*_

A shot that had taken a good ten minutes to charge up fired, narrowly missing the Time Lord by about a foot. The creature cursed in its hiss-and-click dialect (naughty) and set about recharging the gun. Mycroft needed to stop! Everything hurt, the arm of his suit had split and smoked. The street was mostly bare, and the few people that were around had run at the sight of the explosion. Mycroft scanned his surroundings with analytical grey eyes, his gaze finally landing on an old fashioned looking establishment. A café. Hm, it would have to do. It looked empty of customers from first glance through the glass door and despite the OPEN sign hanging off of it; it appeared completely devoid of employees as well. Perfect!

Turning a useless glance back to where the creature had been coming from Mycroft went through the door.

* * *

Isabelle Long hadn't said anything about The Doctor to her parents, her siblings, or anyone really. To her it had been like a dream. She couldn't let anyone know that she'd allowed a stranger into her house! She'd trusted him and it was the right thing to do in her eyes but would anyone else really feel the same? No. Of course they wouldn't. When her mother inquired about the umbrella Isabelle had gone into a lie that might have been believable if she had actually been _good_ at lying in the first place. As it was Lillian Long had assumed it broken or lost somewhere by any of her three daughter's hands. Isabelle still felt a terrible ache in the region of her heart whenever she thought about that disappointed frown, the short lived mistrust… God, it was probably for the best The Doctor had never come back. Imagine trying to lie her way out of that one!

Isabelle came out of the back room with a tray of still-warm muffins to refill the display when she heard the tinkling of the doorbell, "Welcome," she replaced her usual tone with something more bright and cheery -something more serviceable for working with petulant customers. That was when she saw the man dressed in a three piece suit whirl around to face her.

"Isabelle?"

" _The Doctor?!"_

He looked just as she remembered him all those years ago: tall and pale with a long nose and grey eyes like building storms. Except his red hair had turned brown (perhaps dyed that way) and he was wearing clothes that actually fit him. The first word that flitted through Isabelle's head was "dapper". A three piece grey suit with a dark purple tie and a golden pocket-watch chain hanging across the stomach of his waistcoat. Belatedly she realized the umbrella in his hand was the one _she'd_ given to him!

For a moment all they did was stare at each other, The Doctor breathing raggedly and his right arm kind of…smoldering. "Are you hurt?" was all she could think to say, the tray of muffins forgotten in favor of tending to the stranger. Although perhaps at this point he didn't count as a stranger anymore. The man shook his head, "Perfectly alright." She stopped her approach and frowned. His voice was the same if not more "high class" than she remembered. Biting her lip Isabelle considered his appearance, "You haven't aged."

He scoffed, "You have."

Isabelle couldn't bring herself to be insulted by this, if only because their last interaction was when she was twelve years old but also because there was no venom behind it.

"The Doctor, what…what are you doing here?"

Distaste crossed his features, "I would prefer you call me Mr. Holmes, or Mycroft if you're so inclined Miss Long."

"Did you choose that name?"

"I did, what of it?" he raised an eyebrow in challenge. Isabelle fought for something intelligent but only found purchase to say, "It suits you."

He blinked several times, dumbfounded by that response, "Thank you."

* * *

He couldn't bear being called The Doctor, not after all that time lost. He wasn't the same man (when was he ever) he was before. He hadn't travelled in years, he hadn't run after (or away from) aliens in years… he hadn't found a companion since his change. Not that he even wanted one, far be it for The Do- *ahem* Mycroft Holmes to _need_ one! Isabelle approached him, "Why are you here?" she insisted. She looked solemn. He was tempted to joke that he'd come to return the umbrella, but that might include her actually taking it back and he hardly wanted that. Mycroft ran a hand through his dark hair in one casual sweep, "A deal went rather…awry."

"Ok," she frowned. Isabelle had lines on her face, only a few caused by worry rather than age. Still it ached to see her all grown up with concerns and cares when last he'd saw her she was only a small overly trusting girl that had attempted to feed him fish fingers (which by now he had realized were disgusting).

With a sudden, loud and archaic cry of anger the door flew open and the Lorithin burst through- completely visible. Isabelle cried out in alarm and latched herself to his un-scorched arm, staring wide eyed at the alien. He could feel her fingernails dig in past the layer of his suit which suggested a _very_ tight hold. The alien in question resembled the earth praying mantis with green armor covering its weak insides and long arms meant for causing heavy damage in hand to hand combat. This one was missing a leg, usually possessing fourteen, which made her walking cycle a bit slow. Huge veined eyes swirled around to look at him, a ghastly "smile" forming out of her four part mouth.

" _The Mycroft Doctor Holmes,"_ she clicked. Mycroft was a little too busy trying to figure out how to pry Isabelle off his arm without insulting her to think of a clever retort against the creature's misuse of all of his names.

* * *

Isabelle was pretty sure she was dreaming. Yes, a nightmare! A terrible nightmare with a giant mantis monster! Underneath her hands she could feel the tense of Mycroft's muscles which prompted her to loosen her hold a little. The creature crackled and was it just her imagination or was it smiling at them? Without thought she spoke, "W-what did it say?" _Oh come on, as if it actually said anything don't be stupid!_ Her mind readily berated her.

The Doctor tilted his head to look at her, "It said my name," he sniffed. Isabelle couldn't help pinching his arm which prompted him to make an over exaggerated, "Ow" and then he bumped her with his elbow- oddly playful considering the circumstances. With a stiff tone The Doctor opened his mouth and said something in the monster's language, a hiss, two clicks, a snort… Thanks to the fear coursing through her veins Isabelle was able to keep from laughing. The thing replied and Isabelle urged her companion to at least summarize what it said.

"After your disappearance you became incredibly… valuable," he translated slowly during the mantis' obvious tirade, "I will take you and your flying box back with me and we will be rich," this brought an exaggerated eye roll, "Oh please," he scoffed, "Of what use would I be to anyone?"

With a horrible cartilage sound the mantis' head twisted upside down and it lowered to their level to stare close.

"You tell me, _Time Lord_."

There was something in that name Isabelle couldn't let go of. Time Lord? It sounded so regal and important. But also, what on earth was a Time Lord?! Something in the monster's three fingered hand bleeped and it stepped back aim it at both of them. Isabelle felt Mycroft's hand grip hers, "She's going to shoot," he informed her. Isabelle's eyes widened, "Oh-oh God," she yelped, "W-what do we do?"

"Exploding comes to mind."

Isabelle pinched him again for good measure, "That's not even sort of funny," she choked. Steadily Mycroft's free hand slid into the inner part of his jacket and pulled out a broken down looking little device. It sort of burbled in his grip when he pressed down on a button, a little light went on at the end of the stick. Just as the alien's finger pressed down on the trigger of its gun the whole thing combusted in its hands sending it flying backwards and breaking the glass on the door. Isabelle gasped, too stunned to move even as Mycroft made his way to the unconscious creature. He tucked the object back into his pocket and then jabbed the tip of his umbrella against the mantis' neck. Isabelle's eyes widened, "Don't!" she desperately called, heart hammering in her chest. She couldn't believe her own words, that _thing_ had tried to kill them! Something in The Doctor's expression faltered, from serious to almost happy in one brief flash. "Not to worry, I won't kill her. Merely send her back to her ship with a message." He plucked from his innermost pocket a business card which he safely tucked into the claw of the creature. Isabelle could see cracks in its er, _her_ hard shell.

Mycroft stood up and readied his glowy stick when the creature shifted and her enormous bulging eyes blinked at him, filled with malice. It clacked and spat at him. Mycroft stiffened visibly, returning a harsh reply that involved some spitting of his own. The Mantis shuddered and like a flash of lightning disappeared... Isabelle needed to sit down.

Isabelle could remember the first time she'd seen him, lying face down in the grass. He'd been slightly disheveled in his loose suspenders and too big shirt, hair nowhere near presentable. Now he stood like a sentinel, expression icy. The burbling flashlight "thing" he'd used he tucked safely into the inner pocket of his suit. Tongue poking clearly against the inside of his cheek he turned to her, something softening in his gaze. "My apologies Miss Long… that must have been very frightening for you," he approached, hands down at his hips. Isabelle nodded once, bottom lip clenched between her teeth. "I don't… I don't know what just happened, it was incredible but- but yes it was terrifying," she flashed a faint smile. "Incredible?" The Doctor hummed, pulling out a chair opposite her side of the table. He sat down, the slump of his shoulders telling more of his exhaustion than before. "I just saw an alien, well, two actually" she explained, "That is, um, unless I'm hallucinating," she cleared her throat, toe tapping nervously on the floor. Good Lord, how was she going to explain the broken windows to her boss?!

Mycroft extended a hand across the table, fingers arched as though he were going to pick up a glass of something. "The Lori are a simple race, their only desire for that of power and wealth," he seemed to muse.  
Isabelle hunched her shoulders, "So- so why did they want you? You're valuable?" she recalled what the creature had said before.

"I've been gone a long time."

* * *

Mycroft knew he couldn't stay, there were more important things than the delightful smell of a cafe and the delicate way Isabelle's eyes seemed to close. Sherlock. He needed to focus on Sherlock! Swiftly (or as swiftly as he could manage in such a state) Mycroft stood, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat with an air of finality. Isabelle followed suit, "Where are you going?" she asked softly, brow lowering over hazel eyes. Mycroft contemplated lying to her, but going by their conversation he wouldn't be overly successful in that endeavor. "I'm going to go rescue my brother," he waved a dismissive hand. He'd begun to walk when a hand caught his sleeve. "The D- er, Mycroft. Stop." she commanded. The Time Lord hesitated. How he adored humans, their desire to control, their desire to innovate, to be more. This woman he could tell had been pushed down her entire life, that a glistening future had not been promised her. "What happened to your brother?" Isabelle insisted, "I want to help you, I did it before."  
"Yes, you did," he relented, fingers tightening around the handle of his/her umbrella. Isabelle Long could be trusted. Mycroft was lead over to the closest table where he she motioned for him to sit. He was forced to watch as she went behind the counter and returned with a blueberry muffin, "It's not fish fingers-"  
"Thank God," Mycroft cut her off, thin lips pressed into a smile. Isabelle chuckled, "Here," she let the warm creation sit on the table in front of him. Mycroft tried to ignore it as Isabelle took her place.

"So," the Time Lord hummed casually, pressing the tip of his umbrella into the floor, "You want an explanation." Isabelle nodded, crossing her arms over the table, "What happened to you after you left all those years ago?" her gaze searched him. It pained Mycroft to remember, finally finding the Time Lord known as Sherlock Holmes. It had been no easy task inserting himself into that family, hiding who and _what_ he really was. In the end though, it had been a small sacrifice. "Oh a number of things," Mycroft settled on, changing his smile to a grin that made Isabelle roll her eyes. The familiarity was rather unsettling all of a sudden. "My brother he... discovered something important about himself he wasn't meant to know."  
"And this put him in danger?" Isabelle asked, tilting her head ever-so-slightly to the right. "That, is putting it lightly. It seems he has commandeered my...ship."  
"The blue box?" Isabelle shifted in her seat almost excitedly. "Yes," Mycroft rolled his eyes. The two shared a look that was filled with both amusement and wonder. "I haven't used it in nearly twenty years. Kept it in storage whilst I worked for your Government. But Sherlock- my brother- discovered his identity and the whereabouts of the TARDIS. I must find him before he ends up destroying himself," with a rush Mycroft stood up again, "I really must go Miss Long, I thank you for your hospitality."

Isabelle's expression was that of concern, making the Time Lord's heart feel nearly crushed. He could see her desire to help him further, the blueberry muffin suddenly pinched between her fingers and thumb. Mycroft hesitated, "Miss Long… would you like to come with me?" He had no idea why he'd just said that, the desire to be alone and protected in that had (in this life) normally trumped everything else. Isabelle pushed a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, "I…" she looked torn, turning her gaze back to the lonely front counter. Suddenly, something resolute formed in her expression and she stood, muffin in hand (obviously they might need it later, Mycroft mused to himself with a smile.) "Ok. Let's go. "

Mycroft allowed her to wrap her arm around his and the two set off towards the black car waiting for them.

* * *

 **Not happy with this one much at all, but I thought I'd share it. I hope you enjoyed it despite its many flaws.**

 **Thanks again to Ellis Jenkins for the review!**

 **Did you guys enjoy The Final Problem? I liked it a lot actually, as ridiculous as it seemed in places. The characters were true to themselves so it didn't matter if the situation seemed a little bit "out there" ;)**

 **Please review!**


	35. Embrace

**Embrace (If Isabelle survived, Spoilers for "The Final Problem")-**

Isabelle had been woken at midnight by the sound of her phone. Carelessly she rolled over and slapped her palm on the flat device, then she curled her fingers underneath it. Eyes opening a fraction she brought the mobile to her ear, "Mm'hello?" she mumbled into the receiver. "Isabelle, has my brother returned home yet?"

Isabelle frowned to herself, rolling left to find Mycroft's side of the bed empty. "I.." she hesitated. Mycroft had a habit of getting up in the middle of the night to stand in the kitchen and think with a mug of hot chocolate, and on other occasions went to his office to work before coming to bed- the lateness of the night ignored. "I don't know," she answered honestly after a too long pause. Sherlock said something quite naughty, earning an admonishment from John who must have been nearby. Isabelle forced herself to sit up, "Why? Has something happened? Is he ok?" she attempted to rub the sleep out of her eyes with her free hand. Sherlock hummed a single rumbling note, "It hardly matters now," he seemed to wave off her concerns, "Just go and see if he is home, and if he isn't… call me."

Whatever must have happened had to be big if Sherlock was concerned. Was there a chance of Mycroft being kidnapped or hurt if he didn't return home? Isabelle thrust her legs off the bed and padded across the room to find a pair of jeans, currently dressed in only an overlarge t-shirt. "I will," she responded, phone tucked beneath her chin so that she could have two free hands, "Sherlock if- if you can't tell me what happened at least… is Mycroft in danger?"  
Sherlock didn't answer for a long time, she pictured pale as milk fingers rushing through his dark curls. "In a manner of speaking… from himself. Watch him Isabelle." Then he hung up.

After ensuring that their newest infant daughter was still asleep and well, Isabelle first checked Mycroft's office, sending a clumsy text to "Anthea" to ask if she knew where her husband was. She worryingly didn't receive a reply, and upon inspection the office was empty. Isabelle bit her bottom lip hard, she started towards the stairs.  
It became immediately clear that Mycroft was indeed home, the kitchen light was on and his umbrella had been stowed safely in the stand by the door. Isabelle approached slowly and quietly, seeing her husband standing half bent over the stovetop waiting for a kettle to boil. It confused her to find his coat and scarf still on, buttoned and tightened around him by crossed arms. From what she could see he didn't smile nor frown, this thin lips pressed together firmly. Brow furrowing she approached him from behind, a coy smile forming at the idea that she might actually catch him by surprise for once. With gentle hands Isabelle circled his waist, prepared to kiss his cheek…. To be fair, Mycroft _was_ surprised. He inhaled sharply, wriggling quickly out of her grasp like an eel and landing a blow to Isabelle's stomach with his elbow. She staggered backwards, clutching her midsection. It took a moment before the man finally took her in and a look of guilt and concern crossed his features, "Isabelle," he whispered, guiding her to a chair by her shoulders. He still had his gloves on.

Isabelle managed to look up from the floor, the air finally making it back into her lungs. Mycroft's eyes were terribly sad. Somehow she thought it had nothing to do with accidentally hurting her, though the way he rubbed her arm suggested he felt terrible for that too. "I'm ok, I'm ok," she assured him, "I shouldn't have surprised you-"  
"Don't you dare apologize for something that was so clearly my fault," Mycroft admonished, "It _was_ my fault My Dear. I'm sorry." He bent down and placed a short peck on her cheek before he stood to his full height. Isabelle nodded, the blow forgotten in favor of her husband's oddly high strung state of mind. He stared blankly at the wall, hands hanging limply at his side. The young woman flinched with her husband when the kettle began to scream. Mycroft's breathing had taken a shaky turn, near hyperventilation. Isabelle stood up and pushed past him to take the kettle off the heat, "I'm going to make this," she said forcefully, "Do you want to tell me what happened today?" It was no strange thing for Mycroft to be gone all day (and all night), but there was something beyond office work that had set him in such a terrible state of unease. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, "Isabelle-"

"And may I remind you before you start, that after I the Reichenbach...debacle, you promised to be _honest_ ," she turned her sharp gaze to her husband. That ordeal, the realization that her husband had effectively lied to her for two years, had caused more than a little tumult in their relationship. Isabelle had taken the children and had a three month break from their marriage to "figure things out" (It should be mentioned that he was allowed as much time with his children as he wanted).

Mycroft tutted to himself, but seemed resigned to his fate. He put a safe distance between himself and his wife who set about collecting mugs. He didn't say anything until the tea bags had also been fetched and the water poured.

"I saw a man shoot himself today. In the head, to protect his wife. There was so much… blood."

Isabelle's mouth nearly flew open, eyes wide and frightened. "What?" she said breathlessly, not believing what she'd just heard. Mycroft looked blankly at the refrigerator for a moment, careful to avoid eye contact, "I couldn't do it, neither could Doctor Watson in the end. His wife died nonetheless," he waved a hand lightly in the air. Isabelle shook her head, "Why?" she pressed, spooning a small amount of sugar into both mugs. Her heart hammered in her chest, a circadian rhythm. "It was my fault really. That he died. That those three men fell to their deaths not much later, that Molly Hooper had her heart broken… That my brother held a gun to his chin ready to shoot himself rather than end my life." His jaw clenched tight as he seemed to recall the day's events. Isabelle could only stare at her husband, hand going to her mouth as if to hold back the mounting questions. "Mycroft- I don't.. I don't understand, please. What happened to you?" she stepped towards him but he retreated. "Why would Sherlock do that? Hold a gun to you?" she persisted when he didn't answer. Mycroft sniffed disdainfully, "He had a choice. John, or myself. I did try to make it easier for him," his voice took up a lighthearted tone that didn't fit the atmosphere nor the story, "I couldn't let him destroy his only friendship."

Finding the tea to be steeped well enough to her liking, Isabelle picked up a mug and offered it to her husband. "Thank you My Dear," he said softly, cradling it in trembling hands like a precious object, not bringing it to his lips.

"Mycroft-"

He stared down into his cup then a choked sound passed barely parted lips, his grey eyes so filled with emotion it was hard to bear, "Isabelle I can't- I-I can't..."  
Without hesitation Isabelle set aside her mug, tea sloshing onto the counter, and swallowed her husband in a hug. To her surprise he reciprocated, burying his face in her shoulder. He felt suddenly frail in her arms, too thin, shivering. She heard pained noises made into the fabric of her overlarge T-shirt, "I failed everyone," he said with a sniff. Isabelle shook her head, her heart breaking. "No, no you didn't. It's alright Myc, I'm here…"  
"You know nothing," he hissed, brushing fingers through her long slightly tangled hair. Tears spilled from hazel eyes, she tried hard to blink them away, "I- I know that your family is alright. That your brother is alive," she squeezed harder, he returned the favor causing an ache in her ribs that she ignored, "That I'm here and that I love you. It's going to be ok."  
"I will be alright tomorrow," he muttered, inhaling slowly. Isabelle frowned to herself, "You don't have to," she said. Mycroft imperceptibly shook his head against her, burrowing as hard as he could into her still, "But I will."

She dutifully made no comment when she felt the warmth of tears on her shoulder.

* * *

An hour and three cups of Earl Grey later, Isabelle and Mycroft found themselves at the dining room table. Isabelle had retrieved the baby monitor from upstairs and set it down. Part of her secretly hoped that their newest daughter would break into her usual self-pitying wails, because Mycroft would have someone to comfort and protect in that moment. Isabelle had also brought from the refrigerator a jar of strawberry jam and some bread that was nearing stale but would work. Mycroft didn't eat, citing that he was unlikely to keep it down. Isabelle slathered jam onto her own piece of bread and took a small bite from it, emotions making her ill despite her best efforts. The idea that Mycroft might offer himself up to be killed pounded through her mind. "Did you think of me?" she asked in the ensuing silence, unable to raise her voice. Mycroft scoffed, "Of course I did My Dear, but I'm afraid you were not my priority."  
Isabelle frowned despite herself, of course she didn't blame him for thinking of his brother in that situation, _whatever it may have been,_ but it still hurt. He had three children and a wife who adored him. How would she have coped had he died?! "You are in my Will, if I were to die you would have a large home and plenty of money to take care of our children. Doctor Watson? He would leave behind a broken Sherlock, and a child of his own with no one else to care for it. I was being reasonable."

She hated reasonable. Somehow there was a depth to that statement that she couldn't grasp. Mycroft Holmes needed to be the protector, the father, the mother, the older brother, all of it. He would move mountains to keep his brother safe, even if it cost him his own life.

Isabelle reached across the table and placed a pale freckled hand over his, her fingers cradling his wrist. She felt his pulse, calm. His expression more contented, if not horribly tired. "I never realized you had a sister."  
"That was rather the point," he rolled his eyes, a half-hearted motion. Isabelle snorted, unable to be angry at him, not until later anyhow. "I can understand why you kept her secret Myc, that's…scary." She shuddered, even the description of Eurus Holmes left her uneasy. Mycroft quirked his mouth into a lopsided smile.

It would be weeks before the whole story would come to light. Victor/Redbeard, Eurus and Sherlock, the fire. The danger. The fear that Eurus would do something to harm Sherlock should they rediscover each other. There were many near panic attacks when he was left alone in dark rooms, caused by hours locked in Eurus' cell with no knowledge of his brother's safety. Isabelle would come in and hold him, and he would calm down enough to say something snarky and keep going. Isabelle would never be able to convince him that he hadn't failed as a brother, but she never stopped trying.

* * *

 **Not sure how to feel about this one. Hopefully I convey the right amount of FEELS (it has to be written in all caps!).**

 **The Mycroft FEELS from TFP were great btw, I couldn't get enough. My favorite moment (as Ellis Jenkins surely knows haha) is when he offers himself for Sherlock to shoot rather that John. Poor baby needs a hug after that ordeal, even if he doesn't like 'em.**

 **Please review as always ;)**


	36. Random Word Drabbles (Part 4)

**Random Word mini fics 150 words or less (Part 4)-**

 **Focus:**

"Alright My Dear. Now focus, this is important."

Isabelle wiped at her sweating forehead, "I know that Myc!" she snapped, "Just... give me a moment." The air was still and filled with an all consuming tension. One wrong move and it was all for naught. Shoulders hunched Isabelle extended a hand, only to bring it back to her side a moment later, indecision written on her features. Mycroft tapped his fingers impatiently on dark colored wood, saying nothing but thinking _really_ loudly. Finally, the young woman acted, earning a soft "Ah" from her husband. Mycroft smiled at her, then with a flourish made his own move.

"Checkmate."

 **Top:**

It was a well known fact that Mycroft Holmes didn't hug, didn't hold hands, didn't let you sit on his lap, didn't let you into his room after dark, didn't read bedtime stories… Lily had gotten used to it, even as she saw other children be swallowed into the arms of their fathers, given words of never ending praise even though they were stupid. For a while, she had been jealous. But, as time went on, she began to realize the smaller, less noticeable things her "Daddy" did to show his affection. He would prepare special meals, her favorites whenever she did well with schoolwork. He would stand by her door at bedtime watching to make sure she was safe and comfortable before going to his own. And, on those rare occasions, Mycroft Holmes would lean down, call her Dearheart, then place a kiss on the top of her head.

 **Seed:**

"He doesn't love you. Jesus Izzy, you're like a toy to that freak show!" Gloria Long shouted as Isabelle prepared for her date. The young woman eyed herself in the mirror, wrapping her arms around her midsection. Was that true? Did he really think of her as a toy to play with before he dropped her? Maria added (un)helpfully that "he needed a woman to hang of his arm". The rich man and his homely girlfriend. Isabelle curled her hands into fists, digging fingernails into the pale flesh of her arms. No… No, it wasn't true. It just… wasn't. For the first time in a long time, Isabelle refused to let the seeds of doubt bury themselves in her mind. Whether they would end up together or not, she knew that what they had was real. So, she smiled confidently, and confused her sisters when she left.

 **Saint:**

Isabelle entered the bedroom, into the darkness. Her eyes adjusting slowly, she made out the lump on the bed that was her husband. "Myc?" she said in a quiet voice, not wanting to make things worse. He hummed, rolling over so that he faced her, "What?" The terse reply was ignored as Isabelle approached the bed, "I brought you something for your migraine," she held out a mug filled with apple flavored tea (decaffeinated, Isabelle's brand) , and in the other hand a small pill. He accepted both, swallowing down the pill with a grimace before he set aside his mug and returned to the safety of his blanket fortress. Isabelle slipped off her shoes and curled up beside her husband, not intruding on his space, knowing it would only add to his discomfort. "You are a saint My Dear," muffled her husband. Isabelle smiled, "I know."

 **Favorite:**

"Oh, this is delicious Myc!" Isabelle moaned, her mouth full. Mycroft poked listlessly at his meal with his fork. Isabelle ignored her husband's disgust, "How did you know this was my favorite?"

Mycroft looked up, raising an eyebrow, "I'm brilliant," the corners of his mouth upturned, pleased. Isabelle let herself be consumed by a faint memory of her father cooking over a hot stove, then sitting at the table across from him, too short to see unless she sat on her knees. He always made it when Gloria and Maria were at a sleepover or off on some outing with their mother. "I do not understand this at all," Mycroft said after a bout of silence, wrinkling his overlarge nose at the fair. Isabelle shrugged, "My father was American," was her only explanation as she continued to eat her Macaroni and Cheese with cut up hot dogs in it.

 **Treehouse:**

"Ok, I'm going to be the Queen and Maria can uh…" Gloria pressed a hand to her mouth, thinking deep thoughts, "She can be the Princess!" Maria bounced up and down, "Can I wear a crown?" she squeaked excitedly. Gloria waved a hand, silencing her twin, "We'll see. The Queen is more important, I should get a crown first."  
"I bet Mummy would make us a crown," Said Isabelle, picking leaves out of her hair. Gloria nodded once, decisively, "Good. I'll ask her later."  
"What am I?" Isabelle added, having given up on a twig that she decided would forever live on her head. Gloria hummed, "How about the maid? Or the jester!" she laughed. Isabelle looked down at her hands, "I wanna be a princess too…"

Gloria wrinkled her nose, yet was swayed by her tiny sisters downtrodden expression, "Okay, fine. But you have to find your own crown!"

* * *

 **Sorry it took so long for me to update this story guys. I've been focused on the other long story I'm working on (I'm sure you're annoyed that it keeps popping up in your E Mail Lol). I promise I have a real chapter that I'm working on, and I hope I'll have it done before the end of this week... We'll see. Lol**

 **Thanks again to everyone that's reviewed! (I remember I forgot to personally thank Applejax and** **pyroleigh** **for leaving reviews on Troll) and a big thank you to Aelise Aesir and Ellis Jenkins for reviewing the most recent chapter! (I think that's everyone)**


	37. Betrayed

**Betrayed (Warnings: Betrayal!) -**

Isabelle relished the look on his face as soon as she entered his home office room without knocking. The knot that formed between his eyebrows, the silent question in his grey eyes. Isabelle had _always_ respected his privacy, it must be important if she ignored that. And it was important of course, just not in the way he was expecting.  
"Is there something you need My Dear?" he asked in a voice as smooth as silk. Isabelle smirked, approaching his desk and stopping right in front of it, roughly shoving aside the wooden chair meant for "guests". Her husband raised an eyebrow at her, saying nothing. She allowed him to take in her appearance, a low cut grey shirt, skinny jeans, her hair tied high up on the back of her neck. All of these were unusual, but his gaze lingered on the purse hanging over her thin shoulder. Isabelle brought a hand up and tugged at the zipper keeping the bag closed, shoving her hand inside and fingering the object within. "There are a few things I'm going to need of you, _Myc,_ " she sneered. His shoulders stiffened, a thinning of his lips and his eyes narrowed slightly. Still there was familiarity and trust, which amused Isabelle even further. He thought she was upset over something trivial, _silly Isabelle_.

Mycroft shifted his comfortable office chair backwards and looked ready to stand up and confront her in a manner he knew his wife would prefer. Isabelle stopped him with a snarl, bringing out the object her bag had so nicely hidden. "Stay," she instructed harshly, smoothing out her features to something less sinister. Mycroft hesitated, his mouth opening a fraction in surprise and confusion. "Isabelle-" he said, then stopped. The gun was nothing special, a small black pistol that was of little use unless she wanted to shoot from close quarters. But that was the intention. "Surprised?" Isabelle nearly laughed at his expression, she'd been waiting for this for five _long_ years. He knew the weapon was real, he was after all, vastly intelligent. Still there was a sense of disbelief that colored the following sentence, "Isabelle, what are you doing?"

Isabelle looked about the room for a moment then down to her gun, shrugging. "I would have thought it obvious," she hummed, mocking many a similar time he'd said that. Mycroft remained silent after that, leaning back in his chair. Isabelle decided to fill the gap, "I must say it took me a long time to get to this point, but it was worth it. All of those times I had to pretend to be a pathetic mummy's girl that cried at a drop of a hat? Every time I had to sell my emotional abuse, _the desperation_! God, it makes me sick just thinking of it," she raised the gun a fraction, considering shooting him in the head… or even better, his heart, she did love irony after all.

"Isabelle... has someone coerced you into this situation?"

Oh that was adorable, poor baby. Isabelle shook her head gently, "I was hired quite some time ago. See, that's the thing about you Myc," she stepped forwards once more, "From your file I knew I had to play someone helpless, imperfect, emotional. I knew you would be drawn to ikkle Izzykins right away as soon as you deduced the relationship with her sisters and when you made her cry? Gold."  
Mycroft shook his head, "You cannot convince me that these past years have all been a lie I-"  
"Can't I?" Isabelle cut him off, the following audible click filled the room with her husband's tension. He was afraid just then, she could see it. His suddenly cold expression had faltered, a twitch of his lip, tension in his shoulders and hands. "Isabelle, if that is indeed your real name," he tilted his head to the right a fraction, "If you go through with this, you will not leave the building alive. I have security-"  
"You don't get it!" Isabelle's shout rang through the enclosed space, "I'm Isabelle, your lovely wife! They won't stop me from leaving here, they won't have a clue! No one searches me when I come back here or when I leave, I'm safe. The _only woman_ Mycroft Holmes allowed himself to get close to." He loved her. Mycroft swallowed, "Clever," he conceded plainly, hiding behind the mask. It'd taken some finagling on her part to get through that icy exterior, but she'd been patient. Her ability to play the waiting game had been the main reason anyone ever hired her.

Long pale fingers threaded together in front of the man's golden pocket watch, "Well, I suppose if you must, there is little I can do." Mycroft sounded as though the whole thing was an inconvenience, putting on a brave front, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. Isabelle allowed herself one moment of sadness, a brilliant life was about to be snuffed out. Over the years, while she hadn't allowed herself to love him, she had come to admire what he was and what he stood for. Mycroft Holmes the eternally dedicated. It was a shame, but that wasn't going to stop her. "Any last words?" She prodded, running a hand over her long chestnut braid. She was going to celebrate being able to wear her hair short again!

Mycroft shrugged, "I suppose there are a few things I would like to say. I won't of course, there is little point. Why attempt to endear myself to my killer?" he hummed, "Though perhaps, if you could make it...quick?"

Her heart twinged.

Isabelle hands sweat, though she nodded once, resolutely, "Whatever Myc, I don't care either way. If you're ready?" she readied herself, using both hands to steadily grip the weapon in her hand.

 _She fired._

* * *

 **April 1st! I couldn't help it. Sorry guys. Of course I admit the idea of anyone pulling all of that off is a bit ridiculous!**

 **Next chapter is still being worked on and will be an actual "How they met" AU scenario. ;)**


	38. Risk

**Risk (Warnings: Minor swears, stupidly sweet at the end, not what I wanted to write) -**

As soon as she'd laid eyes upon her childhood home Lillian Holmes inexplicably relaxed. She took in the perfectly clipped lawn, the looming shadow of the mansion, the distinct shape of furniture through the windows. Nothing regarding her old residence _ever_ changed- and truth be told she liked it that way. Bastian Kirk sighed contentedly, "It's good to have you back Miss 'olmes, it's been so boring 'ere without you," he shot a look back from the driver's seat as they came to a stop just before the building. "That's no surprise," Lily replied with an exaggerated eye roll. The driver grinned as he climbed free of the vehicle, quickly circling to open the door for her. Lily stepped onto the snow covered driveway with dirty old sneakers, the laces loose and ready to unknot at any moment. She tugged down her short jean-skirt and adjusted her jumper, giving no cares to the state of her long blonde hair which for the first time in forever she'd let fall free over her back and shoulders. Months of fieldwork had kept her tightly bound in regards to wardrobe so it felt good to wear her usual (though slightly childish) attire. Bastian retrieved Lillian's luggage from the boot of the car and rolled it up to her, "I'm sure your father's excited to have you back."

"I'll bet he is," Lillian mumbled sarcastically, unable to picture her father showing any form of "excitement" towards anything. She took the suitcases into her hands and made her way up the stone steps, departing a single wave back to Bastian before going through the tall oak doors.

If one were to step into the large building alongside Lillian one would not be able to tell it was near Christmas. There was no tree, no cookies, no decorations of any kind. Silence was the only company to her footsteps on the wooden floors.

"I'm home!" Lily called as she set aside her suitcase next to the umbrella stand, only to receive nothing but the echo of her own voice. She frowned, "Daddy?" she marched into the kitchen, finding it empty. Her father _always_ greeted her at the door, one could set their schedule to his perfect orbit. With her father, nothing ever changed unless it dearly needed to. All manner of terrible things filled her head- an attack or attempted kidnapping being the most prominent. Lily shoved a hand into the pocket of her skirt and retrieved her pepper spray (they had a thing about her not always carrying her gun- if her father was dead _hoo boy_ would they be sorry!) and carefully went into "agent mode", darting through gaps and hiding against walls. Her search brought her up the stairs and towards her father's bedroom where upon the door hung a little wooden sign that read "Knock before Entry". Lily had never once followed that rule.

Cautiously she opened the door, ducking her head in and sweeping her gaze across the confines of Mycroft Holmes' bedroom. It was just as vacant as everywhere else. Blowing a stray blonde hair away from her face with one frustrated breath Lily furthered herself into the room, observing the perfectly made bed, the clear floor, organized desk, and everything else suggesting order and tidiness that he'd allowed into his inner sanctum. The only thing out of place was the picture of her deceased mother sitting crookedly atop the bedside table and a painting of a hummingbird to the right of the bed. It all smelled vaguely of vanilla which radiated coziness, the soft colors speaking the same.

Lily considered checking out her old bedroom when she suddenly noticed the distinct patter of running water. Turning to the right proved the bathroom door shut and locked which it never would be unless someone was in there. She hesitated, brow furrowed. Her father always showered after he got up in the morning, which was some three hours ago… so what was he doing? She fought back the confusion as best she could and instead transplanted annoyance . Of all things to interrupt what should have been a grand return home! Pouting like a child the young woman approached the door and rapped the wood with her knuckles, "I'm home!"

Nothing.

Lily frowned, "Daddy? Hellooo," she banged on the door harder. The sound that followed could only be described as a moan. Lily pressed her ear against the small crack between the bedroom and the bathroom, "Daddy?" she persisted. The sound again. Deciding that something must have been wrong Lily pulled up her jean skirt and plucked her lock-picking equipment out of her thigh holster and immediately bent down to unlock the bathroom door. "I'm coming in," she informed whoever was waiting for her on the other side. It unlocked with a satisfying click and Lily stood up, smugly stowing away the metal items and opening the door. The sight that met her was not one she was expecting.

"WOAH, Daddy!"

Mycroft Holmes was naked and on his back in the bathtub, the shower running hot water over his legs. He looked blearily at her, blinking twice before turning his gaze back to the ceiling. Near his right temple there was a sluggishly bleeding wound indicating he'd slipped and hurt himself rather than having been attacked.

"Retrieve a blanket for me would you," her father told her breathlessly. Lillian complied, stumbling out of the room with one hand over her eyes. She hadn't seen anything beyond his bare shoulders and chest before she blessedly thought to cover her line of vision. In Mycroft's bedroom she retrieved the first blanket she saw, tugging it free of its perfectly made position and returning to the bathroom to throw it into the bathtub.

"It's safe to look now Dearheart."

Lily let her hand drop giving her full view of the damage done. There wasn't much blood, a minor wound, but it had swollen and his movements were slower than usual. His eyes sat half closed as though he was fighting sleep. Shoving back the uncomfortable lurch of her stomach Lily went to the end of the tub near his feet and turned off the water, a lock of blonde hair falling over her shoulder.

"Hey Daddy. So, how're you?" she mocked, shoulders hunched as she crossed her arms. He attempted to roll his eyes but only wound up wincing, jaw muscles working as he grit his teeth. "How long have you been like this?" Lillian deigned to ask. Her father turned his head to face her properly, "I didn't count."

"Right, but you _always_ know the time of day so how long have you been like this?" she insisted, absentmindedly pulling the blanket further over his ankles, he was probably freezing. Mycroft thought for an overly long time then said tiredly, "An hour. Two at the most."

That wasn't good was it…?

Lily swore underneath her breath earning her a chastising glare from her half conscious father that she promptly ignored, "Right, I'm going to call for an ambulance," she informed him imperiously, reaching into the opposite pocket of her short skirt and pulling out her mobile. Mycroft shook his head in a slow, lazy, movement, "I'm fine."

"You've got to be joking," the blonde choked, "You probably have a concussion. I'm calling an ambulance!"

"I don't joke." He scowled, putting out two pale hands to grip the either side of the tub. Lily hissed alongside her father as he attempted for what must have been the hundredth time to stand up. The young woman put a hand on his bare shoulder, "Don't be stupid," she complained, earning her another unhappy expression, "If you have a concussion you might need medical care and there is no way _I'm_ doing anything," she finished dialing, breathing in a calming breath before she started speaking. Mycroft settled back with a sigh.

* * *

In luea of knocking Lillian crashed the tray she'd been holding into her father's bedroom door. A disgruntled, "Come in," from the other side made her grin. The young blonde adjusted the tray in her arms and turned the knob, shoving it open with her shoulder. Soup spilled over the edge of the bowl as she stumbled her way in, grey eyes finding Mycroft's prone form. His eyes were closed, thin lips pressed together. To the casual observer he might have appeared asleep, but Lily had spent twenty years with the man and knew he was thinking.

Lily stopped nearly a foot from her father's bed. He looked so... _old_. His dark brown hair, though well maintained, was mostly grey, a few blue veins webbing his otherwise perfect hands. There were worry lines that used to smooth out after his concerns were over, now permanently etched into his pale face. What struck her most though was, despite years and years of struggling with his back and forth weight problems, there was a thin bony quality to his frame and a sunken, hollowness to his face. "I brought you soup. It's uh, the stuff from the can but tastes okay," she shrugged, tight grip loosening as she slid the flat object onto her father's lap. Eyes opened, he fingered the metal edges of the tray, "Thank you Lillian. Hm, you have your mother's talent for cooking." Lily snorted, sitting on the edge of the bed. She tugged at one of her knee high socks with her thumb, pulling it back up over her thick calves. "I never needed to learn," she shot back, "Why bother when you can make everything in a microwave?" Mycroft rolled his eyes, allowing one more mouthful of the watery concoction before he moved the tray to the side.

Mycroft attempted to sit up, wincing as he did so. Lily watched him with an unhealthy mixture of fear and frustration. "Daddy just, stay still! Jeez," she pressed two hands to his shoulders, unkind words that she didn't dare say aloud in the presence of her father rushed through her mind. She'd learned a some doozies from her um… "co-workers", especially during missions.  
"Jeez?" The elder Holmes raised a solitary eyebrow and for a moment Lily thought she could forget the wound on his head. This was Mycroft, the man that had taken cries of hatred towards him during her teenaged years into his stride, citing that even if she _did_ hate him he didn't care because she was his daughter. Though he'd put it in sterner terms then. "It's a word," Lillian shot back, "and if it isn't, I don't care."

"I'm sure you don't Dearheart," her father rolled his eyes, making a face when he was finished. Lily tilted her head, "That looks like it hurts," she managed a smirk. He waved off her words with one hand, "Your concern is appreciated but not needed." Lily tensed. Concern. As if she'd ever felt concerned about anyone in her life! "I was making a statement," she huffed, kicking out one leg. People and concern were… inconvenient, she decided. The need to care, despite the overwhelming urge to instead use them to her advantage. She'd cheated on tests at school using manipulative techniques, she'd forced Nero (a somewhat distant relative who looked achingly like her uncle) to take her around London to ease her boredom, she'd once climbed to the top of a tree and convinced someone to come up and get her only to climb down by herself as soon as the stranger had gotten up to help her. Lillian showed no concern for other people damnit!

And yet.

Lily looked from the wall back to the impassive face of her father. He looked to be drifting off to sleep, offering her an opportunity to sneak out of the room and not come back until he was less...fragile. But she also knew that there were things that needed to be said. Being a Holmes was far from easy in this regard, but she had her mother's DNA too. "Daddy?"  
Eyes, a distilled grey, opened all the way again and he appeared to focus completely on her, rather than the pull of sleep. "Yes?" He managed to sit up a bit when Lillian turned her gaze to her upturned palms, words caught in her throat. "I wanted to say- I uh- you know you-" she let out a too loud, frustrated growl, balling her hands into fists atop her thighs. She bit the inside of her cheek hard than twisted around, pulling her legs up so that she sat with them crossed atop her father's bed. He raised an eyebrow again, lips thinning as he seemed to understand that she was about to have _an emotion_ and that his mask might be needed. Lily ignored this, "You're going to find that the bottom of your bathtub feels like sandpaper now. Don't question it," she waved a hand wildly about her head then let it fall to her lap. The second eyebrow leveled with the other one atop his tall forehead, "Mmhm. Did this happen while I was at the hospital perchance?" a slight tilt of his mouth, an almost smile, still a mask. His daughter nodded, "I just… I'm have a mission overseas coming up and I won't be able to find you fallen in the tub again," she rolled her eyes, "Alistair has his new government thingamajig so he won't be visiting any time soon. Prat." Lily adored her brother, whether she realized it or not, but he represented the logical "you need to do your homework" or "eating that much ice cream is really bad for you" part of her life that she had always hated as a child.

Silence.

Mycroft extended a hand to his daughter, which she took loosely in her grasp. Her palm was sweaty and his too cold, so at least they balanced out. What was odd was the contact happening in the first place, she'd gotten nigh on eight hugs her entire childhood because he couldn't handle touch. "I'm going to be alright, you understand," he spoke softly, the type of voice he used when he desperately wanted you to drop a subject, "It was a misstep on my part. It won't happen again. I slipped."

"You can't say that!" Lillian felt the words burst forth like a bullet from a gun, startling her father's grasp from hers. _Shit_. She continued regardless, "You can't tell me that you won't slip and fall again, or that you won't twist something or whatever it is old people do!" Mycroft looked affronted at being referred to as an old person, yet he remained silent. Lily lowered her voice, "You're a Holmes. I just… if you're going to die you can't… you have to be shot or, blown up by a bomb. You have to go out the way a Holmes should, not-" she swallowed back a sob, watery eyes blinked repeatedly to hold back tears, "You can't slip in a tub Daddy. It isn't right."  
"It's too normal," Mycroft offered, eyes suddenly gentle. Lily nearly gasped when he leaned forward, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. She buried her face in the silky shoulder of his pajamas, hands bunched together against his chest. Despite the bony nature of his body, he was soft and perfectly warm. In the back of her mind she knew he was taxing himself, both physically and emotionally just by hugging her, but she couldn't begin to care.

After a moment he pulled back, bringing the blankets towards his chest, "Lillian. I understand that things are… complicated, now that you have a job and your brother is slowly rising through the ranks, but I am used to being alone. I assure you, I will be fine. "  
"And if you're not?"

Mycroft smiled, "Don't let Sherlock do my eulogy."

Lillian wasn't happy with the answer, though the idea of her Uncle coming back from his beekeeping to deliver an innapropriate eulogy about her father was a good one. She pushed her hair away from her face and sighed, "I guess there's nothing I can really do." Perhaps she could have Bastian look in on him everyday and maybe- maybe she could visit him on all of her days off? She didn't have a boyfriend or a friend or a desire to get drunk, so what else would she do with her free time? It took her a moment to realize that her father had fallen asleep. Lily stood up, hissing when she realized her legs had fallen asleep. After a short dance to return blood flow, she returned to the bed and safely moved the tray to the side table. Her mother smiled at her from her picture, wearing a pretty wedding dress, hand with ring held out as she showed it off to the camera. Lily tsked dissaprovingly, turning her attention to her slumbering father. In a fit of familial love she combed her fingers through his grey hair, sighing long windedly.

"Sleep well Daddy."

* * *

" _Lillian it is time for bed, I am not going to tell you again."_

 _Lily whimpered, turning the corner to come into her father's line of sight. He'd taken up a large part of the dining room table, his desk not fit for the amount of paperwork spread around him. Lily tugged at a lock of hair, "Daddy, I wanna stay awake!"  
He stood up and walked over to her, falling down onto his haunches with a weary sigh, and a slight wince from being bent over his work for hours, "Lillian, you need to sleep. It is a requirement for survival and physical growth."  
Lily shook her head vehemently, "I can't fall asleep Daddy!" she whined, "I was thinking too much and it got scary!" her eyes, very much like her father's, were pleading for him to understand. Fortunately (and unfortunately) he did. "Alright," Mycroft rose to his full height, "Follow me Dearheart."_

 _He took her up to her room, then instructed her to climb into bed. "But I wanna stay up!" Mycroft shook his head, "_ _Want to_ _. Speak correctly. Dearheart I already explained why that would be a poor choice," he pulled the covers up to her shoulders, pushing her wild hair away from her round little face, retracting his hand too quickly afterwards. With a grunt he found Lillian's bookshelf, most of the tomes completely untouched because they were considered "boring" to his young daughter. He plucked one from the uppermost shelf then sat himself at the very end and the very edge of her bed, "This one usually shut Sherlock's mind off when he was your age," he smiled fondly at the memory, then focused his attention upon the open book. "Chapter one. In which we are introduced to Winnie The Pooh and Some Bees and the Story Begins."_

 _Some ten minutes later Lillian had fallen asleep, one arm raised oddly above her head. Mycroft rose and replaced the book, turning after to face the sleeping child. She reminded him of his long departed wife at that moment, with her pale skin and freckled nose, the way her golden locks splayed unceremoniously over the pillow. She reminded him of Sherlock too, the amount of energy she had when she was awake, the way she rushed from one fascination to another, her ability to drive Mycroft insane with both worry and annoyance. Eurus too, he supposed, the unhealthy attachment to her Uncle, the way she watched him sometimes reminded him of Eurus when she used to be nothing but a curious child to him Lastly, and most painfully, she reminded him of himself. Those silent brooding moments, the isolation, the stalwart need to control everything around her. Lillian Rosalie-Sophia Holmes, his daughter._

 _Mycroft moved to exit the room, turning off the lights but leaving the door open a crack so that she could have some light… and also so that he could hear her from his room. He would return to his room, he decided. With a gentle tug at the corners of his mouth, he cast one last glance at Lillian,_

" _Sleep well, Dearheart."_

* * *

 **Hey guys, remember me? No? Hm. Well, anywho, I know this isn't what I promised. I swear I have some "how they met" moments coming! I just hit a writing roadblock a while back and it's only just now seemed to have gone away. I also apologize for the spacing problem, I use the "Copy and Paste" method as I'm sure you know. ;)**

 **Please leave a review, constructive criticism is great! XD**


	39. I choose you!

**I choose you! (Pokémon. Includes Eurus, no spoilers for any seasons)-**

Mycroft was certain his mother had taken the family to the park merely to punish him. He couldn't recall what he'd done, but it must have been something terrible. The eldest Holmes sat cross legged on the corner of the large checkered blanket they'd set out, arms folded petulantly across his midsection. Eurus perched herself next to Sherlock, watching him throw bits of his sandwich into the grass to entice Redbeard. Over the young girl's shoulder, Duskull stared at him with the red orb of light, shifting between both eye sockets. Mycroft swallowed uneasily then bit into his own sandwich, trying hard not to look back at the Ghost type Pokémon. From behind his Persian butted against his elbow, ducking her head beneath his arm. Mycroft scratched at her round ears, listening to the gentle satisfied pur Ruby gave when he hit just the right spot. Alright, so perhaps a day in the park had been beneficial to their Pokémon, that still didn't mean he liked it!

The park wasn't nearly as crowded as Mycroft had thought it would be. They had found a decent spot in the shade of a tree so that Eurus' Ghost types would not be uncomfortable. Continuing to scratch behind Ruby's ears Mycroft looked upwards to where Noctowl had perched himself, watching them. It felt much safer than Duskull's stare. Glaceon approached him, jealously butting his head against his master's other arm in hopes of getting scratched as well. Decidedly giving up on finishing his meal, Mycroft took to scratching two head at once. He wished that he could read while he did it, but that seemed unlikely unless someone held the book open in front of him. Redbeard nuzzled against Sherlock's side and pushed him over, licking his cheek while the boy giggled, wildly scratching at the Growlithe's sides. Mycroft couldn't help but smile, even though Gengar had joined Eurus' group. The young girl looked jealously at the creature playing with her younger brother, her dark pigtails blowing in the breeze. "Growlithe's are stupid," she huffed, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. The boy stopped and scowled at her. Sensing an argument Mrs. Holmes intruded, "Sherlock, why don't you and your sister go buy some poffins and beans for Redbeard and...Duskull," she quirked her mouth into a crooked line. Eurus hadn't bothered to name either of her Pokémon. Sherlock sprang up, eagerly taking the money from his mother and shoving it into his pocket, "Blackbeard, Sting, c'mon!" he called to his Mightyena and Combee.

"Myc, why don't you go with them?"

Mycroft winced, his father's warm gaze fixed on him. "I don't-" he started to object only for Linda to raise a hand, "No, your father's right. I'm sure Doze is getting hungry by now, isn't she?" she gestured to the untouched Pokéball resting near Mycroft's left foot. He made a face, "Alright," he sighed and rose, getting a disgruntled rumble from the creatures at his side. Noctowl took to flight, ready to follow. "Here dear," his mother slid more money into his hand, "Thank you, I appreciate it."  
He managed a tight smile, regretting his decision to go along with his siblings already. With a slow exhale,Pokéball tucked into his front pocket, he started to walk the direction both Sherlock and Eurus had gone. Mycroft was at least able to see the back of Sherlock's curly head in the distance. He considered that good enough, there was _no way_ he was running to catch up with them. The sun beat down on the surrounding area, causing Mycroft to sweat from both the heat and the unwanted excursion. To his distaste, he could imagine his parents sending him off with his siblings merely to get him some exercise. Ugh. All of his Pokémon, used to his sedate pace, walked (and flew) beside him at the same speed.

Finally they reached the shop/stand that had been set up only a few months ago, meant to draw in trainers taking their Pokémon for much needed breaks (as well as random encounters in the tall grassy areas). Sherlock had already ordered a bag of red Pokébeans and doled them out to each of his "friends". Eurus sat next to him with her hands clasped between her knees. Mycroft went up to the counter and ordered several bags of both beans and poffins, exchanging money with the man before turning to interact with his brother and sister. "Sherlock, keep your hand flat or Redbeard will bite off your fingers," he chastised without much interest. He took a seat on one of the many park benches lining the area and offered food to each of his Pokémon in turn, nearly getting his own fingers bitten off by his Persian, who even on the best days was a tad volatile. Without a word he reached into his pocket and retrieved his final Pokéball, releasing the creature inside.

"SNORE-LAX!"

Stragglers backed away when the giant monster formed before them. Doze looked blearily around her, then sat down with an earth shaking boom. Mycroft stood up with a grunt and held up a bag of food, which long pale claws plucked from his grasp. She swallowed the whole thing, then spat the packaging at his feet. "Oh _wow_!" a voice Mycroft had never heard before squeaked from behind him, "I-I've never seen a Snorlax in person!"  
The young man twisted around to find a girl, a few years younger than he was, staring in awe at both him and Doze. She stepped towards him, revealing a thin freckled face and a long chestnut braid that hung over her shoulder and ended at her hip. Over her right shoulder, a Butterfree fluttered and spread its poisonous powder onto the grass. Mycroft fought for a decent response, "They are rather uncommon to this area," he finally said. "What's her name?" the newcomer persisted, hugging her small waist. "Doze," he blushed. He'd been young when he'd named her. "The Noctowl is Diogenes, and these are Ruby and Melas," he gestured to Persian and Glaceon in turn.

"They're lovely," she complimented with a crooked, incredibly sweet smile, "This is Poppy," she lifted a thin hand towards the Butterfree.

"Redbeard come back here!"

Before anyone could react, Sherlock's Growlithe had launched himself at the stranger, knocking her flat. She screamed, pushing at his chest, legs curling towards her chest as best they could with two large paws atop her stomach. Mycroft rushed towards her, pulling at the long white fur on Redbeard's neck. "Readbeard, come!" Sherlock ordered, running to the two of them, Eurus trailing behind looking at the scene with a blankness only she seemed to have. Redbeard backed off, hackles raised. Mycroft offered a hand to the young woman, "Are you alright?" he asked, concern growing when she didn't move. Her expression was pained, terrified really, her tall forehead scrunched up. "I'm sorry, I-I-" she managed to raise a hand to wipe hot tears away from her cheeks, "I-I don't like Dog types."  
"What?" Sherlock looked supremely confused by the idea. Mycroft made a face, "It's alright, my brother's Growlithe is tame...normally," he looked pointedly at his younger brother. "It wasn't my fault! Gengar scared him." Both looked at Eurus who tilted her head, her ponytails moving with her, "He was just playing." _Right._ Taking charge of the situation Mycroft placed both hands on his hips, "Both of you should go back to Mummy-uh- Mum and Dad, I still need to take care of Doze then I'll follow you." Sherlock started to walk away when Mycroft added, "And don't you dare wander off or I will send Diogenes after you!" his terse tone expressed how much he meant that. "Fine."

Siblings gone, he fell onto his haunches next to the inert woman. "My name is Mycroft, if you were wondering," he playfully offered her his hand again. She took it this time, her hands sweaty but fitting with his perfectly. She was dreadfully light to lift, she couldn't have weighed much. "Isabelle," she responded, dusting off her rear end as though for show. She wore a pale pink shirt with a Pokéball design in the center, jeans, and a brown bag which hung from her right shoulder to her left hip,"I-I'm sorry I freaked out." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Why should you apologize? I fear response is common among people with any survival instinct," he smirked, "Besides, I imagine there must be a reasonable reason behind your distaste for dog types."  
Isabelle shoved her braid from her shoulder onto her back, "I was bitten by a Poochyena when I was little… I've been afraid ever since," she shrugged, looking embarrassed nonetheless. The two stood, looking at each other for some time. It was surprisingly comfortable rather than the expected awkwardness he usually got when around people. Isabelle's Butterfree (Poppy) twittered at her trainer worriedly, she stroked her small purple belly, "I should probably go back to my family," she finally said with a sigh. Mycroft considered her apparel, demeanour, and voice and decided her didn't much care for her family at all. Feeling silly, but determined nonetheless, he shrugged one shoulder, "I could come with you. To ensure you aren't attacked by any more wild pirates," he cleared his throat, shoving one hand into his pocket. Her face brightened like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Goodness she was… rather pleasing to look at, Mycroft decided.

The two walked through the short grassy plain, the gorgeous greens blending together with the blue sky like a painting. Mycroft had tucked Doze back into her Pokéball, for the sake of speed, while the rest of them walked behind. Isabelle looked around her with a contented smile. Mycroft looked for dog type Pokémon, his inner protectiveness zooming to the forefront and taking over. "Do you want water?" her eyes, hazel, met his. Mycroft, who had begun to breathe a little heavier than before, blushed red, "That would be welcome, thank you," he muttered. Isabelle dug around in her bag and retrieved a water, "It's hot today," she offered. Thankful, Mycroft smiled before bringing the bottle to his lips. Somehow she set him at ease. Normally around people he felt...wrong, out of place, even if he had learned how to talk to them. "Your brother seems nice," the young woman said after a short silence. Mycroft snorted in a manner unbefitting him, "Sherlock is a pain in every sense of the word," he told her firmly, twisting the plastic cap back onto his water. Isabelle grinned, "But you love him anyway right?" she nudged him with her elbow, startling him. She noticed the tension that suddenly consumed him and frowned, but said nothing. "I… am making sure he and Eurus live to adulthood," he conceded to that fact. She cast a knowing glance in his direction.

The two of them finally came up to a group of people, a tired looking woman with short blonde hair, he deduced her to be Isabelle's mother. Then a young short woman (which was odd, Isabelle was quite tall) with mud brown hair that brushed against her chin, a Talonflame perched on her shoulder. Beside her, another with blonde hair so short it was hard to tell it was actually there and a Wobbuffet. Isabelle stepped ahead of him, "Thank you for coming with me. I- uh-it was nice," she rubbed her arm, "I felt safe." Mycroft smiled genuinely, "You're welcome. Perhaps one day we shall meet again."

Yeah right.

Isabelle pulled him into an abrupt hug, it was short lived thankfully, but comfortable despite her bony-ness. Mycroft didn't return the gesture, though part of him wanted to. Behind him, Ruby rumbled, displeased that her master was interacting with another being that wasn't her. Isabelle tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, "I should go. Bye… Mycroft, bye Mycroft," she stumbled, "S-See you again sometime."

Mycroft watched her trot away, her Butterfree following.

Ruby came up behind and butted her head against his hand. "Yes alright," he sighed, watching Isabelle talk to her family with a weary slump of her shoulders, "We should go back. Come along," he waved his Pokémon towards him, away from Isabelle, and started to walk. Waterbottle held firmly in his hands.

* * *

 **Hey guys! Um… Pokémon! Man, this seemed so much longer when I was writing it XD**

 **Thank you to A Photoless Album for your review of "Betrayed"! I promise if I get any other ideas for that story-line, I'll write them X) And of course, the ever lovely Ellis Jenkins, thank you!**


	40. Delicious

**Delicious (regular ALWTH world)-**

Her lips traced a pattern across supple flesh, tongue slowly following in a smooth arch. She caressed the shape beneath her fingers, eyes drifted closed, her whole body enraptured. The sweet scent filled her nostrils and urged her forward, her teeth barely nipping at the skin before sucking on the affected area. She squeezed her left hand, arching slightly at the waist and biting again. She moaned long and pleasured. She inhaled sharply and licked her lips, ready to press them to another-

"Isabelle, if you aren't going to eat your apple like a normal person I'm going to a different room!"

"...Sorry Myc."


End file.
